The Road to the White House
by TruthSS
Summary: An in-depth, behind-the-scenes account on how Fitzgerald Grant and Oliva-Pope Grant won the keys to the White House and became the nation's first interracial First Couple. Includes newspaper articles, editorials, and magazine interviews. Also includes reporting on the team of family, political role players and staffers that propelled them to victory. (AU)
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note.**

Hi readers :) I am back. New story. Out of exile. I have had many ideas banging around, but I noticed most of them were AU. Which will be the focus of most of my work from here on out. Canon is way too frustrating and messy to deal with. I will not be continuing The Fourth Act anytime soon, due to frustrations I still harbor with the show and frankly I have lost inspiration for that particularly story. I hope to continue it down the road, but for right now, I am focusing on this story.

This story will be a little more West Wing/House of Cards/Game Change and less Alias-lite. It will focus on the the Behind the Scenes aspects of campaigning and governing and the toll it takes on families, staffers and relationships, than it will...well whatever the show tried and failed to do in Season 3.

At the risk of sounding petty, I hope to prove that there are much more interesting aspects to the Washington D.C-political apparatus than spies and love triangles. I have also wanted to play around with Fitz's statement in Season One ("Why didn't I meet you sooner?)

I have been really obsessed over what the Scandalverse would have been like in a world of no Mellitz marriage, a functioning Olitz marriage, an antagonist in Jake and a better paced story and fuller back story for Olivia.

I'm also starting fresh due to incredibly touching PMs I received from people on here. They definitely motivated me to get back in the saddle. Hope you enjoy!

* * *

LOCATION: BLAIR HOUSE

DATE: JANUARYY 17

TIME:10:00AM

There were days when Quinn Perkins had to pinch herself.

...This was definitely one of those days. Chief of Staff to the First Lady of the United States. It had a nice ring to it. How did she end up in this job? The daughter of a single dad, a math teacher who had voted Democrat since he fell in love with the idealism of John. F Kennedy, his child, was now was a visible member Grant Administration.

Well, not all that visible...

After all she was working for the First Lady. Though it should be said Olivia Pope-Grant was a rather different from her predecessors. In the 24 hour news cycle, one that could not get enough of the dynamic First Couple and their fresh-faced staff, press coverage on obscure positions like Quinn's will most likely increase over time.

For one thing, at the ripe young age (at least in D.C) of 38, Olivia Pope-Grant was going to be in five days, the youngest First Lady since Jackie Kennedy.

As Quinn sat patiently in the ornate sitting room, one of many in Blair House, she could not help but pinch herself once more. Mentally, of course.

She had already been profiled by a beat reporter, from the D.C Times. He, Gideon Wallace had asked all the right questions. Was she looking forward to the inauguration? What was the First Lady's focus, as far as an agenda? Did she intend to be more like Laura Bush or Hillary Clinton?

Quinn had given all the right pre-rehearsed answers. Yes! She was thrilled especially proud given the historic nature of the Grants being the first interracial First Couple. The First Lady feels privileged in her station in life and hopes to use her platform to make like easier for other women. Finally, she had no intention being anyone but herself and she was hoping the American people would embrace her for her own merits.

Though it would not be hard to do...

Mrs. Pope-Grant had already won the hearts and minds of the American People. She was beautiful, poised, vivacious, with a wicked sense of humor and an even better sense of fashion. She, had during the campaign straddled the perfect balance of wife, mother and business owner, attracted a following among women and was (if most were being honest), a key reason why the President-Elect had won 40% of the African- American vote.

Quinn checked her watch. Huh. 20 minutes late...

Mrs. Grant was never this late, maybe her husband, who tended to get bogged down in long-winded conversations with his staff, but never her. They needed to meet today to complete the choice of a Press Secretary and Social Secretary. The shortlist, including the vetting papers were neatly lodged in her Michael Kors tote.

It's going to get worse over the next six months or so...

She ran an anxious hand over her sleek ponytail and checked her watch once more. The Secret Service agents assigned to Blair House had warned she might be a few minutes late...but not 20 minutes late...

However, the knowing twinkle in Hal's eye meant one of two things. Either the future First Lady was preoccupied with the children or the suspicions that most staffers held about Mrs. Pope-Grant were going to become more well...obvious in the coming weeks.

The Grants were a loving couple, so much, it could be sickening. Any person who had been with them for an extended period of time could only marvel that after 13 years of marriage, they still managed to behave like newlyweds.

There was hand-holding, the longing gazes and the affectionate way Mr. Grant would wrap his arms around Mrs. Grant's waist, burying his head in her neck when they thought no one was paying attention.

Quinn remembered distinctly on the campaign, when she was merely a press aide to the then-Senator Grant, the night he had clinched the nomination. There was champagne flowing, giddy enthusiasm and a future First Couple that had forgotten there were people, including their preteen children, Avery (13) and Blythe (11) in the room, given their very public displays of tipsy affection.

The senior staff smirked with bemusement as the junior staffers, like Quinn stared in awe, (some swooned) as Fitzgerald Grant, conversing with his Campaign Manager, Cyrus Beene , he had one arm wrapped around his wife, absent-mindedly slipped his hand down her hip and onto her ass, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

For most, it would not be so strange, but they were experienced political animals who had done time as staffers on the Hill, worked, intern for campaigns, candidates and consulting firms. They had been around on too many political couples who hammed it up in front of the cameras, yet sleep in separate bedrooms when no one was looking.

They had, in case of female staffers like Quinn herself, been the target of affection from leery, overweight Congressmen who were sex starved and needed an ego boost. So it was refreshing ( and a bit ironic) that the GOP's golden boy, with his Ralph Lauren-model good looks, seductive charm and an ass you could bounce a quarter off of, was so smitten with his wife.

Though it was not hard to imagine why.

No, the cause of suspicion had been when during the taping of a Diane Sawyer interview post-election, four weeks post-election when getting her make-up touched up, Mrs Pope-Grant had violently vomited her breakfast all over her husband's dress shoes. Mrs-Pope Grant had claimed she was coming down with the flu, but that did not stop the "bubble" from speculating about the real reason behind her recent behavior.

Then there was her sudden switch from her signature four-inch red sole Christian Louboutins to demure kitten heels and flats. Quinn had even overheard from Alyssa, a good friend newly minted Director of Scheduling and Advance that Mrs. Pope-Grant had suddenly garnered a hankering for seltzer water and crackers.

Some like Lauren, the bubbly Special Assistant to the President-Elect had relayed over beers at Gettysburger that the she had overheard from one of the Secret Service agents something about the a secret visit to a doctor that had occurred a week before they had taken up their temporary residence in Blair House.

Most obvious of all, was the change in -Grant's wardrobe. Gone were the well-tailored dresses and pencil skirts and in were peplum jackets and slacks, which fashionably distracted from what many were beginning to suspect was a growing bump.

"Ma'am" A tall blond Secret Service Agent said, breaking Quinn out of her ruminations.

"Hi!" Quinn responded cheerfully. She had barely noticed the guy walk in the room.

"Mrs. Pope-Grant is not feeling well-"

"Does she want to reschedule?" Quinn asked. At the risk of being callous, she mentally noted to file this juicy nugget into her rolodex of conversation when she went out for drinks with the girls tonight. The only question was, how far along was she?

If there is one thing Quinn had learned since her first job answering phones in Governor Andrew Nichols office her Freshmen year at Stanford, is that all politicians used their families for political reasons.

* * *

...

LOCATION: 1715 P. ST NW WASHINGTON, DC

DATE: JANUARY 17TH

TIME: 11:35PM

"Wait, so you think they are waiting for the first trimester to end?" Alyssa asked curiously as she downed a shot of tequila.

It was late and the three amigos, Lauren, Alyssa and Quinn were hauled up in Quinn's Gables Dupont Circle studio exchanging war stories while chowing down on Gettysburger food and tequila. The town was practically buzzing with activity, parties and cocktail shindigs being thrown in celebration of the arrival of Camelot 2.0. However, they knew better than to be cavorting around where gossip hounds from the D.C Times and the Washington Post would be trying to get dirt on their bosses.

Quinn shook their head. "Well, they have to be, why else would they not announce that she's preggos. From the looks of things, Grant may have knocked her up during election time."

Lauren laughed her loud barking laugh as she took a bite out of her Ol' Bess burger.

"Something tells me the little one is an Election Day. You know Walter?"

"The Secret Service agent you used to fuck? What about him?"

"Well, he told me the night of the election, they turned in early and apparently, you could hear them going at it all night. If you do the math, and I would bet my paycheck, that's when it happened.

They giggled loudly. They were way too drunk for their own good. Three girls with 7 degrees and 5 Ivy League Institutions between them were gossiping about the future First Couple's sex life.

They were hardly the only ones. All over D.C, similar conversations were being had.

* * *

LOCATION: MALLOY'S BAR AND GRILL.

DATE: JANUARY 18TH.

TIME: 12:05

Unfortunately, a slinky D.C Times style reporter by the name Vanessa Chandler had taken a seat right behind a gaggle of Secret Service agents in D.C's hottest bar, Malloy's.

One beer,

Two beers,

Three beers, a dozen...

By the end of the night, between the President-Elect's body man, the rowdy Secret Service agents and a few other "named sources", she had the story that would make her a Pulitzer Prize winning journalist.

The young blond typed away what would be her Magnus Opus until dawn. There were T-72 hours until inauguration yet, that would not be the biggest story on the front pages.

This would be.

IS FUTURE FIRST LADY OLIVIA POPE- GRANT EXPECTING?

* * *

LOCATION: BLAIR HOUSE

DATE: JANUARY 19th

TIME: 9:35PM

The strong, authoritative voice of the Republican National Committee chairman was booming with laughter. Hollis Doyle (69) had been a mover and shaker in Republican politics since before Grant was born.

He was holding court in the elegant rear Drawing room, which was packed with a host of guests of the President-Elect and the future First Lady. The two of them were a gem, practically surrogate children to him. The handsome son of a bitch was dressed in a sharp tuxedo, seated across the room with his arm around his Ms, who was a vision in a long, glittery dress that made her like like Diahann Carroll circa the 1970s.

They looked elated, glowing with happiness. Grant was being inaugurated in less than 24 hours, with more political capital than he would know what to do with and Hollis Doyle was going to make sure to use it at his disposal. His dream of a big tent party would finally be realized. No more would the Party of Lincoln be smeared by the race-baiters on the left with charges of racism. How could they be? They had a drop dead gorgeous black First Lady whose very presence inoculated them.

The mid-terms, if all went according to plan would be a landslide, knocking the Democrats and their four years of Reston rot and corruption out the door.

Similar thoughts were running through the mind of Cyrus Beene, the dour face future Chief of Staff who was nursing a scotch. Cyrus was engaged in small talk with Jake Ballard, the lean green-eyed pitbull who would be his Deputy Chief of Staff.

Hollis, Cyrus and Ballard had been instrumental in getting Grant to 1600, from the courting of donors and convincing his fellow Georgian, Sally Langston to take the VP slot to Cyrus Beene convincing Grant that he even had a shot at the nomination without his father's backing, they had done what was almost impossible.

However, if any of the credit for Grant getting his head in the game, it was the pretty little lady laughing alongside her husband. If it had not been for the woman of steel that was Oliva Pope-Grant convincing her husband he had what it took after a brutal primary fight, well, let's just say Hollis Doyle would be enjoying his scotch on the Greek Isles retired, fat and happy.

* * *

A YEAR AND A HALF BEFORE...

LOCATION: THE POPE COMPOUND, The Inkwell,

MARTHA'S VINEYARD.

The Pope Compound was quiet.

It was a balmy summer night, the sky ink red and preparing for sundown.

The 5,000 square foot was a white shingled Georgian home that had been in her family for three generations. It had been built by her great-grandfather, a Creole black man from the bayous of Louisiana who had become a successful doctor. One of the only black doctors in the south at the time.

It contained a large foyer, a pool that had been added by Olivia's mother after the death of Rowan. It had a wonderful view of the water, lovely gardens and enough bedrooms to house Pope-Grant clan and their staff.

The house, normally overflowing with activity and guest was hushed. A silence had overtaken it with the only people being the immediate Pope-Grant clan. The family of four sat in the wood paneled den contemplating their future.

The kids had to know. It was decision time. It had been a long time coming but, the election was close, to close. The would be a relaxing normal summer for now. In a few weeks, the quiet before the chaos would let up.

If things were to go as the media's speculation were going, this would be the last normal summer they would experience in a long time.


	2. Confessions of a Political Wife

Dear Journal,

6/25/10

I am scared. I am not going to lie. I am petrified of the thought of him running. After 15 years together and two kids, I have never loved him more. We are finally in a place where I feel like our lives had a semblance of normality.

We eat dinner most nights as a family, Fitz makes sure of it. When Congress is not in session, we take family trips, go to the Vineyard.

We do normal things...

Now I walk around with this dread. Last night when we made love, I cried.

I cried because I had never felt more loved and cherished by my husband. I had never felt more at peace. Then as we lay, nestled in the cocoon of sweat, sex and laughter...

I realize the television is on. I realize it is on CNN. I realize they are speculating, once again on whether Fitz is running for President.

I hate this. The way that stupid moment stripped me of my high.

That was our time, us, we, together. It was us after night of quiet dinner with the kids where politics and fixing did not exist.

Avery is growing so fast. And he's all Fitz now. The pout, his voice is cracking, the growth spurt. Blythe is such a beauty. She is going through her first crush. Logan Lopez is his name. He gave her a card for her birthday and kissed her on the cheek.

Oh, young love. I wish I had that innocence at her age.

I want to be selfish. I want to tell him "don't do it." Don't do it because I love you and our family. Don't do it because my parents marriage could not survive my dad's ambition. That years of Eli climbing and proving himself resulted in him losing my mother to booze and Dominique. While he checked off the list, Director of Clandestine Services, Director of the Agency, Secretary of Defense...my mom screwed his best friend. Behind his back as she spent her days swimming in Remy Martin.

I think back to the bad years, when I hated them. For fighting and the times my mother shipped me off to boarding school, the distance a world apart from any notion of family.

We had it all. The houses, the cars. The prestige.

The fucking prestige is all that mattered to Eli. How one minute he would fight with mom, the next they would pretend to love each other at dinner parties.

Fitz and I have never been that. We love each. And while no marriage is perfect, and I work too hard sometimes, the kids are happy. We are happy.

They don't know sorrow, and absentee parents like Fitz and I did. Parents who cheat, and use kids as leverage.

Parents who put them second...

I hate this. I have climbed, I have ambition and I have made Pope, Finch & Associates everything I dreamed.

And every step of the way, Fitz was there encouraging me, kissing my fears away, making me feel like I can do anything. I think about how his eyes light up every time I close a case successfully or when I am tasked with a merger.

Yet here I am mad at the mere thought of him chasing a dream.

I don't want him to give up anymore for me. He passed on being Senate Majority Leader because he did not want to spend anymore time away from me and the kids.

He wanted to coach Avery's basketball team.

He wanted to go to Blythe's jumping competition.

I can't deny him this. I want him to run. But I'm scared. Scared of the expectations, of the media prying into our lives. Most importantly I am scared for the kids. They have already started to ask questions.

They know. Their friends talk...

I've made mistakes. I am not Laura Bush. I slept around in high school. I got high in college. I am not First Lady material. And while Fitz and my friends accept me, I am not sure if the American people will.

I'm scared.


	3. An Undisclosed Source

**D.C TIMES**

_**Date: 7/1/10.**_

_**A TALE of TWO FITZS**_

_**By: Vanessa Chandler **_

_**Edited by: James Novak**_

_It is a balmy night in the ritzy Audubon Ballroom, in the Grand Hyatt Tampa Bay. The best of the Republican party are in their finest dining things. Black tie, big diamonds and even bigger hair. Holding court at the head the "Platinum Table", or the table for donors who contributed $50,000 or more, was The Don himself, Fitzgerald "Big Gerry" Grant II._

_A large, barrel-chested man with a thick mop of silver hair and a personality the size of California, he is the unofficial puppet master of GOP politics._

_He has the charm, pulling you in with his magnetism, colorful stories (and even more colorful language) involving dinners with Heads of State, golf sessions with Tiger Woods and peals of wisdom sprinkled in very skilful succession. _

_The champagne flowed and the guest not fortunate enough to get a table with the Big Dog would come, greet him and engage in genuflection at the man who had made the GOP the dominate party for the last 20 years._

_"He's the reason behind our electoral successes. My boss owes him." I am told this by Billy Chambers, the freckled spokesperson for Senate Minority Leader, Sally Langston told me while digging into his roasted duck._

_Success is a term that should be examined. A man who was the son of Irish immigrants, who went from a scrappy Harvard Business School graduate, to head of a Top Hedge fund, Treasury Secretary, then Governor of California is a success. A man who has raised two successful children, has the respect of his country and the world is a success._

_However, this is the same man who had his presidential ambitions derailed by his inability to curb his appetites for women, drink or food. His love of leggy brunettes caused him great embarrassment, and according to biographer Lewis Sachs, who penned The "Teflon Don: Fitzgerald Grant II" , almost cost him his marriage. _

_His nearly three year dalliance with Susan Byron, a Communications Director during is gubernatorial years was the straw that broke the camels back. This was covered by the tabloids, brought embarrassing details to the forefront and was the dominant trash mag sensation of the 1980s. _

_In contrast to the excesses of "Big Gerry" Grant is his oldest son and only son, Fitzgerald "Fitz" Thomas Grant III._

_While the father was a rough around the edges populist Governor with a Libertarian streak, his son is a wonky policy hound with serious foreign policy chops due to his time as Secretary of the Navy, his success as a Naval Officer, which earned him three Purple Hearts._

_"He is a hard worker, who really cares about policy first, politics second." Cyrus Beene, respected political consultant and close family friend told me over foie gras._

_If nothing else, this statement explains why the handsome scion of Grant is not at this lush fundraiser for prospective candidates. When I did my research, it turned out Grant III was spending his night quietly with his family in D.C_

_It is a bit jarring that the younger Grant would not be at an event like this. After all, there are all the whispers about him running for office. His barn burner of a speech at the Republican National Convention two years ago catapulted the already appealing two- term Senator to the head of the pact. In a recent ABC/Washington Post poll, he is polling ahead of Maryland Governor Sam Reston by seven points._

_One would think rubbing the ego of fat-cat donors would be next the logical step towards a presidential campaign._

_"These kind of events are not his thing. You only see Fitz at fundraisers if he is slated to give a speech, or to help out a friend in a tough primary. Hell, the guy only comes to California for town halls and constituent meet-ups." A wealthy donor who wished to remain anonymous told me when I inquired about his absence._

_It is not hard to see why. While the younger Grant has prided himself on "Man of the People image", he is hardly a pauper._

_He inherited a great deal of money through a trust fund, lives in a swanky Georgetown townhouse and splits his vacations between Martha's Vineyard, his family's palatial Santa Barbara ranch or his winter home in Vermont._

_So why the absence? _

_Well, for one, he is working on S.B 320, a prison reform bill that has caught much bipartisan support. He has two young children who he prioritizes above all._

_And finally, the Big "O", his wife, Olivia Pope-Grant, the pollster-turned crisis management consultant who is also the daughter of Foreign policy pioneer, the late Eli Pope._

_His marriage to the petite powerhouse has had an incredibly polarized effect on the Washington elite._

_On the positive side, it represents the merging of the black and white elite in Washington. Not to mention the merging of the greatest political dynasties since Bush and Kennedy. _

_However, the rift it caused socially is significant. _

_The tough- as -nails Pope was not always welcomed in elite Republican D.C. Prominent ladies of society shunned her from guests lists and often jokingly referred to her as "Sally Hemings" according to sources._

_"The hazing she under went was cruel. It hardly made any sense. She's a sweet person and has always made Fitz happy." Alicia Grant, powerful entertainment attorney and youngest sister and of Fitz lll told me over coffee in her home in Brentwood the next day._

_Though most would deny it, whispers of place settings labeled "Mellie Grant", in reference to Mellie Archibald, the blue blood ex-girlfriend of Grant III at dinner parties still persist._

_The black elite, while less harsh in their approach were hardly happy that their princess, and the heir apparent to a man they had hoped would be the first black President married a "white boy." _

_The wedding, which had been the social event of the 90s was a "whose who" of politics and business guest. A multi-colored tableau of upper echelons of D.C._

_It would also be the first and last time many of those guests met and socialized in the same room, barring a Presidential inauguration._

_The unspoken tension that still exist between father and son today may have less to do with personality differences and more to do with the younger's choice to marry a black woman. It is an uncomfortable truth that often gets swept under the rug._

_It is important to remember rumors of a big blowout resulting in a fist being thrown at the Grants engagement party years ago._

_If you ask most, they will say it was a simple misunderstanding. But is it a coincidence that the breakdown of Fitz II and Fitz III's relationship began 12 years ago?_

_One has to wonder? If Mellie Archibald was Mellie Grant, would Grant III be at the fundraiser?_

* * *

In a swanky Washington office office on K Street, Jake Ballard chuckled to himself. The whole article was tabloid trash and he was surprised such a pristine newspaper would publish such a thing.

But whatever it took to light the fire under the ass of Grant made his job easier. Hopefully two years from now when he is Chief of Staff, planting the story would be worth it.


	4. The Silence before the Press Storm

LOCATION: THE POPE COMPOUND, The Inkwell, MARTHA'S VINEYARD.

JULY 2010.

Fitz was old. There was no two ways about it. There was a stitch in his side, as his worn Navy T-shirt stuck to his body with sweat.

The source of is exhaustion? His 13 year old son.

It was a beautiful July day in the Vineyard and that meant one on one basketball with Avery. As he watched his boy lay up the ball, his footwork impeccable, his form precise, a wistful smile danced on his across his lips. Memories of a toothless toddler waddling around in a DuPont Circle condo years ago danced in his head.

"Dad, you okay?" Avery inquired, a look of worry arresting his face.

"Yeah, I...just good job. I'm all worn out, that's all."

"So you finally admit you can't guard me."

"Keep trash talking your old man, kid and find yourself grounded."

Avery smirked, mischief aglow in his big, brown eyes as he dribbled the ball masterfully, showing off his handles.

It had to be noon. The sun was now a punishing and blistering nuisance. It was definitely time to head back inside. The tennis court doubling as a basketball court had no source of shade and if he and Avery stayed out in the sun any longer, there was no way in hell Liv would forgive them for going outside without SPF 30, let alone sunburn.

A lecture on the dangers of skin cancer would be inevitable.

As Fitz attempted to catch his breath, his noticed Avery staring at him, his facial expression was difficult to read. However any parent knew when their child was concerned.

"Av? Something on your mind?" He asked walking toward his son and placing his hands on his shoulders. Avery looked up at him, bitting his lip with apprehension in a way that made Fitz smile. For all the talk of father and son looking alike, whether it was his eyes, his his mannerisms or his proclivity to worry, Avery was more like Liv than most knew.

"Are the rumors true?" He asked in a rushed tone, as if he had been holding back the urge to ask the question.

A cool wave of anxiety washed over Fitz as the words left his son's mouth. It was the last thing he thought his kids would have to worry about.

There had already been many discussions with Liv, his staff and friends.

There an awkward lunch with the Minority Whip of the House a week prior where the elderly congressman tried (with no subtlety ) to push him toward chasing, what Big Gerry called "The Brass Ring of American Politics."

Never had the Vineyard seemed so silent as he tried the best way he knew how to assuage his son's worry; with levity.

"Well, son when you crossover me twice, I think its time for me to admit I am not as young as I used to be."

He tried to smile, but from the look on Avery's face, the youngster was not buying it.

"Dad I'm serious. Danny Barbone-"

"-the kid who used to tease Ella about her hair?"

"Yeah, he asked me about it, I heard my teachers gossiping about it and kids in school are talking about that stupid article about you and Grandpa. I just want to know what the deal is?"

Fitz sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Time was ticking. When 13 year olds make your political future a point of conversation, it was time to stop pussy-footing around.

"Honestly...I...don't know."

"You don't know-"

"I don't know if I want to run. Your mother and I have discussed it. I have a lot of support but-"

"But what?" Avery asked quietly. Fitz gestured toward the house and they began walking up the atone pathway, side by side toward the house. The question lingered in the air. It had to be answered. They made it a point to be as honest with the kids as possible without scaring them.

He looked at Avery, the slumped shoulders, his lip pouted. Then again, at times it was frightening how uncanny the resemblance was.

The realization hit him. The feeling of pride, nostalgia and sadness hit him. At Avery's age, there is no way in hell he would have thought to ask whether or not his father was running for President. Hell, he was not even sure if he ran it by his mother.

He suddenly remembered that crisp September day at Andover when he found out from a teacher his dad was running for higher office...

The last thing he needed his son or daughter to feel was the neglect, the inadequacy of knowing your parents will make decisions that impact your life without you knowing.

Fitz wrapped an arm around his son's shoulders and brought him closer.

"Listen, I know its tough. People can be mean. They write things to make themselves feel important. But the one thing you don't have to worry about is rumors. I'm not gonna lie, I have been thinking about it. There is a lot of pressure and I think I could do the job. But I'm not gonna do it if you and your sister don't want me to."

They stopped walking, a comfortable silence setting in as the reached the end of the pathway and entered the garden. The flowers were in bloom, magnolias and orchids providing the surrounding area the most fragrant smells this side of Liv's perfume.

"Honestly dad, I think its pretty cool. You get to help people, and the job comes with a pretty sick house." Avery said shrugging.

Fitz smiled, shaking his head.

"Have you and your sister talked about this?" He inquired knowing how close they were. Blythe was much more outspoken and outgoing than Avery yet, she had a tendency to share more of her worries with her older brother.

"Not really. I don't think she really gets it. She just doesn't want Grandpa around."

"Why would Grandpa be around?"

"Well, duh Dad, if you run for president, he has to campaign with you." Avery said, walking toward the house.

"You know, I sometimes am both shocked and proud at how smart you and your sister have gotten." Fitz said, breaking into a light jog to catch up with his son. They had an unspoken rule about racing each other into the house after each one on one game.

"Yeah, Aunt Abby said we get that from mom." Avery joked, looking over his shoulder as he hit the patio first.

"Hey! I'm smart too." Fitz whined mockingly. "I'm a Senator for Pete's sake."

He was officially out of breath by the time he made it up the patio steps and toward the French doors that lead into the kitchen. Savory smells of his favorite, shrimp gumbo met his nose. Liv must be cooking.

Sure enough as he made his way into the kitchen, there she was in cutoff denim shorts and a white tank top cutting up vegetables. Avery was smiling with victory as he plopped down behind the counter.

Damn it! He beat him again. Now it was really official he was getting old.

"Baby, I think you being a Senator is a known thing." Liv replied smiling.

God she was beautiful. Fitz thought. It was amazing how good she looked. His eyes traveling from her bright smile to her long and elegant neck on full display thanks to a messy bun piled on too of her head.

"Baby, why is Abby lying to the kids?." Fitz asked walking around to the island and hugging his wife from behind. He loved this. It was the greatest thing since sliced bread. Her, just being. No make-up, natural and at ease.

"Umm, one I have no idea what you and Av were talking about. Two, as much as enjoy the natural musk of Grant men, both of you need to shower before lunch."

"But Mom-"

"But nothing. You were both outside sweating. I don't need puddles on my counters and floors. Shower now, young man."

Avery rolled his eyes, annoyed as he hopped of his stool.

"What if I told you I totally killed Dad at b-ball today?" Olivia giggled as she turned around in Fitz's arms and cocked an eyebrow at him. He smiled softly as her she rubbed her hands up and down his chest.

"You are getting old, Old man." She smirked. He rolled his eyes and leaned in to kiss her, but before he could, Avery cleared his throat.

" Guys, I'm still in the room." He said as he started walking out the kitchen in disgust. "Why can't you be like other parents?"

"Because you have a hot mom." Fitz said Ina cheeky tone as Avery pretended to vomit at the sight of Fitz planting a kiss on Liv's neck.

"That's it, in taking a shower!" Avery declared exasperated as he ran out the room.

Fitz and Liv broke out into laughter over their son's antics.

"Aren't you going to take a shower?" Liv inquired jovially.

"Well, truth be told, I was hoping we could finish what he started this morning, before you got that work call." Fitz said huskily, enraptured in the elegance of her neck, as his fingers caressing her taut stomach.

"I already took a shower, too late. And Cyrus is dropping Blythe off any second. So I want to have lunch done by then." Liv sassed as she stirred what was sure to be a delicious meal.

As Fitz snuggled into his wife's petite frame, chuckling and enjoying the bliss of the moment, the conversation he had with Av began swirling in his head.

The dark cloud...

He had to make a decision. For Liv, for the kids...and partially for himself.


	5. Weight of Power

DATE: JANUARY 20th, Inauguration Day.

LOCATION: Blair House.

Never had winter been so cruel. The windchill was below bearable as the snow fell with ease. The dawn sky was the most fascinating shade of indigo.

It had begun. The hum of the city. It descended down every four years. On the Washington mall, people had already begun to congregate with excitement. The press trucks had already begun to pull into their designated areas...

The hum was palpable.

Yet for the man at the center of the excitement was as calm as the silence.

His morning had started early. Though it should not. He should be cuddling with his wife, his wife who was in a delicate condition. His wife who he worried about her ability to withstand the cold for so long...

Fitz sat by the larger window, clad only in his flannel pajama pants and a white T-Shirt was contemplating his life.

At least he was contemplating his life in the cliché way you did when you are to become president before lunch.

He stared out the window, the police barricades that blocked off the street on both sides suddenly seemed so...much.

The oddness of any Washington D.C street being vacated for prolonged periods of time finally registered. To think, he was staring out a window, contemplating life with no signs of life outside his window seemed...silly.

All of it. The incessant Secret Service agents, every minute of his life being scheduled, the weight of responsibility. He wanted it. He could do the job. That was not the problem. Call it ego, call it narcissism but he always knew he could do the job.

But the loss of any anonymity was stark. He could not take Blythe to Ben's Chilly Bowl for father-daughter bonding after a recital. His anniversary dinner with Liv at their favorite D.C spot was front page news. He could not go see the last _Iron Man _movie with Avery, needing a sniper team following him.

He remembered the pool report.

_**POTUS-elect and FLOTUS-elect**__ celebrated their anniversary dinner at famed Ethiopian eatery, Ethiopic. They spent two hours eating and conversing [conversation was inaudible to pool]._

_**POTUS-elect**__ ordered Yebeg Alethcha Wot, a meal described by the wait staff as 'tender pieces of lamb simmered in mild sauce seasoned with spices and fresh herbs.' _

_The __**FLOTUS-elect**__ had Vegetarian Sampler, which included gomen, miser wot, fosolia, tikile gomen, kik aletcha, dinich wot, shimbra asa wot._

_Alcohol was not consumed. The dress attire was business casual, with FLOTUS elect wearing what appears to be a diamond necklace, sourced to __**Cartier**__._

The whole thing had been bizarre. Anniversary dinners normally meant the kids were sleeping over Abby's or Cyrus's, he and Liv cooked a romantic meal, exchanged gifts and watched their box set of _The Sopranos._

It was more important to spend time together than do the song and dance. Now, they had joined the dog and pony show, with Jake and Cyrus telling them that a night in would not do. That they needed to patron D.C restaurants to show they were "The First Couple of the People".

He seriously doubted "the people" were up for spending more than $20 per entrée at an Ethiopian restaurant in this economic climate.

Hell, most Americans had never so much as had Ethiopian food.

Fitz sighed deeply, pressing his forehead against the cold glass. It was a concession he was not proud of. As much as Liv reassured him that he she did not mind, he felt the hovering cloud of guilt.

It should not have to be this way. Yesterday, they were forced to reveal to the press yesterday in a pre-planned interview to _60 Minutes_ that Liv was with child, because that stupid Chandler girl had found out through 'sources'.

So it was either announced on their own terms or have a D.C Times headline do it for them.

A flash of anger paced through his somewhat exhausted body.

He should not be angry. Though he was. Fitz wanted this. No more complaints.

As he tried to push down the building resentment, the silence of the room was interrupted by the soft shuffling of sheets.

Fitz looked over his shoulder to see Olivia stirring out of sleep. Her large eyes fluttering with confusion.

"If you are thinking of jumping, you might want to tell me now. Because there is a certain redhead from Georgia who would love to get her hands on those nuclear codes." Olivia snarked, her voice husky from sleep.

Fitz chuckled, finally feeling some source of comfort. He watched his wife rise from the sheets, her face round from pregnancy, her swollen stomach covered in the maroon cotton of her Georgetown sweatshirt.

Even with her hair tied up in a silk bonnet, sleep fresh on her being, he still thought his wife was the most radiant being in the world.

She slowly made her way over to him, climbing the cozy nook of the window and cuddled into Fitz.

There was no more comfort in the world than having his wife and soon to arrive child nestled in his arms.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing." He answered softly, stroking her stomach.

He did not need to see her face to know that skepticism filled his wife.

"Mmmhmm, here you are, staring pensively out the window on the most important day of your life, and you expecting me to believe nothing's wrong."

"How poetic of you. Isn't it a bit early to be using five dollar words? Lil' Miss Fixer. _Pensively..._"

"Nice try, but that still does not answer the question." Olivia said giggling. She turned around gently to face her husband.

They took a moment. Staring at each other and taking it all in. He skin was glowing in the face of the morning sun beginning to rise. Her eyes, big round and warm pools were hard to hid from. He could feel his walls coming down the second he looked into them.

"I...the kids, the baby, you...I'm-"

"Hey. None of that. Today is a good day. No negativity. You did it. You made it here." She said her voice strong with love and conviction she began to run a delicate hand through his curls. Her presence calmed him, alleviating his body from the hum of anxiety.

He looked at her, knowing that she believed.

"I could not have done it without you." He said warmly, placing a soft kiss on her lips.

"I love you. I want you to know that. I love you so much." She whispered between kisses.

Soft as petal kisses became impassioned declarations of love and appreciation.

As he carried her over to the bed, their hunger for each other eating away at clothes and barriers, his fears fell away.

Their love-making that morning was slow and gentle. Olivia whispered sweetness in his ear as the moved as one. It was the last time they would make love as just man and wife.

Soft mews, deep groans and orgasmic highs filled the air.

And as the morning sun completely rose over D.C, the alarm in the magnificently ornate master bedroom went off, Mr. And Mrs. Grant rose from bed.

The duty and responsibility of the day melted away the intimacy of their bliss.

For later tonight, when they make love, they would be doing so as different people.

They would be in the residence of the East Wing.

They would be the President and First Lady of the United States.

Such a long way away from the simplicity of a previous summer.


	6. David vs Goliath

LOCATION: 1600 PENNSYLVANIA AVE, East Wing, Office of the First Lady of the United States.

DATE: May 11th, 2013.

TIME: 1:45pm.

Jake Ballard did not frequent the other side of 1600 Penn. As Deputy Chief of Staff to the President of the United States, his domain was his office down the hall from the Oval. He took pride in the proximity of his office to the Oval Office. Always proud, never scared.

So it hardly made sense that he was arrested with fear as he stalked down the halls of the East Wing.

As he made it towards the First Lady's office, the hitch he felt in his throat intensified.

He had to be honest, he lived for the President. His drinking buddies at the State Department often joked "if Grant ask you to jump from the Jefferson Memorial, you would ask 'when can I schedule it'".

The wife...eh. Not so much. They had their fair share of clashes during the campaign, resulting in Cyrus playing mediator.

There had been the time Mrs. Grant had been asked on a late night talk show host what the then Governor wore to bed.

Her response? A very coy 'nothing' that included a wink at the camera. Though she was just kidding, though the largely liberal and college aged crowd ate it up, it did not poll well with the base. Some saw the joke as tasteless.

There was no fallout, per say but that kind of thing did not fly with the reliable elderly vote. The kind that liked their First Ladies a little more like June Cleaver and a lot less like Carrie Bradshaw.

There was the time that Mrs. Grant wore $1000 riding boots to a state fair in New Hampshire. While they was featured in elite magazines as the hot new thing, he had little time for the spoiled princess routine.

How a man as smart and powerful was beholden to his _wife._

She was so manipulative. A simple kiss on the cheek or a whisper in his ear, and Olivia Pope-Grant could torpedo a whole paragraph of the State of the Union.

So here he was, at the bosom of estrogen central. The East Wing was...

He looked around. Unlike the WASPy nature of the West Wing, all walk and talk and Brooks Brothers suits. Here, in the East Wing, the staffers were younger and much more fashionable.

Women in colorful sheaths and high heels clacked around.

_Minions. _He thought sneeringly as he walked to the First Lady's Executive Assistant. Suddenly, his anxiousness seemed to dissipate.

She was hot. Asian, nice ass in her black pencil skirt. Jake thought as the young woman turned around and greeted him with a dimpled smile.

"Hi, is the First Lady-" but before Jake could complete his sentence (and finish scoping out the ass on the Executive Assistant), the door opened, revealing none other than the First Lady and...the President?

Despite his discomfort with Mrs. Grant, he could not help but admit that she was an arrestingly good-looking person. Her svelte, yet curvaceous frame was hugged in a regal plum dress. It practically looked painted on her body. Her wavy sheets of jet-black hair cascaded down her shoulders.

What made her beauty all the more illuminating was the Cheshire grin on her face as she escorted the President out of her office suite.

The President looked fresh and rejuvenated, as he shared a loving kiss with his wife.

It was safe to assume the lobster bisque being served in the White House Mess was not the reason behind POTUS's windswept hair or the glow of satisfaction radiating on his handsome face.

A quickie...

He should have factored that in. The rumors had always been there about the two of them hooking up in the middle of the day, but how was he to know?

"Fuck!" He thought alarmed. How the hell did she get the President in the East Wing without anyone's knowledge? The man's schedule was packed with meetings and briefings. Normally one could gauge the movement of the President (other than the PA system) by the density of Secret Service agents in any given hallway.

At this rate, he would be out of the White House before the midterms...

The source of his ire was a"palace intrigue"piece that had been written by an old college friend. The President hated palace intrigue pieces. Especially ones written about his wife.

Fire and brimstone will rain down when Cyrus got a hand on who the leak was.

In other words, Jake Ballard was in deep shit.

An old college friend that he just so happen to fuck over the weekend.

The bright-eyed blonde that gave the best blow jobs in his Princeton class had morphed into a ambitious thorn in the White House's side.

If the First Lady's people had gotten word that he so much as had a conversation with Vanessa Chandler, he would be planting lawn signs for dog catcher in Alaska.

His heart sped up as the First Couple caught wind of his presence.

Uh-Oh.

**...**

**Behind the Mask.**

_**By Vanessa Chandler AND Eric Cho.**_

_Last month's State Dinner was nothing short of breath-taking. The organization, the food, all was a production of epic proportions._

_First, there was First Lady Olivia-Pope Grant's custom Dior gown. The off-shoulder champagne number brought literally gasp to the press when she and the President appeared on the North Portico. The French First Lady, according to insiders from the Élysée Palace, was nothing short of embarrassed._

_While the American press foamed at the mouth at the chicness of Mrs. Grant, the French media lambasted their own First Lady for being shown up by her much younger American counter part._

_The food, prepared by Rougui Dia, the famed Senegalese-French chef was exquisite. One could not help but wonder if the decision to go with the young and groundbreaking chef was a slap in the face toward President Francois Gardot who had been advocating for legislation that would limit the number of African refugees permitted into France._

_The night was merry and classy, the First Lady, who is conversational in French, delighted the French delegation._

_However, for all the gloss laid a very tense spilt in the room._

_One that had nothing to do with nouvelle cuisine versus haute cuisine._

_The State dinner was the tenth one of the Grant White House, amazing considering President Hill hosted just eight in both his terms in office. _

_While many have lauded the White House, particularly the East Wing for its "mommy diplomacy", the First Lady's strategy of winning hearts and minds through state dinners and trips, there are those in the West Wing who are leery with what they consider her encroachment of their territory._

_The tensions are not new. Insiders from the campaign lamented to Rob Katz, author of New York Times bestseller 'On the Bus: Behind the Scenes of the Grant Campaign' that Mrs. Pope-Grant is not easy to control._

_"She's an iron fist cloaked in a velvet glove. That does not rub the right way witha lot of Grant's people." A Senior Campaign staffer relayed to Katz._

_The grumblings have become louder._

_"Look, no one is asking her to shut up and get back in the kitchen. All people in the West Wing want is for her to know her place. We are trying to push an agenda here, and here she comes sweeping in. She thinks she's saving the fucking day. For once, people would like to get credit for their hard work on this side of the building." A White House deputy told me over drinks._

_It is hard to see what the complaints are. President Grant doing battle with uncooperative Democratic Congress and fighting to push through an agenda, his better half's sterling image with the American people helps him maintain the Camelot 2.O mystic. _

_The President's approval has sunk to his lowest yet, 51% according to the latest NBC/WALL STREET JOURNAL poll. Meanwhile, Mrs. Grants approval is at an all-time high, thanks to the adorable toddler attached to her hip, her LEAN FORWARD campaign and her fashion sense. She is, in short, a national treasure._

_Could the griping from staff members be jealousy? Or is the First Lady really running the show behind the scenes? _

_If this years State of the Union was any indication, maybe the President ought to listen to his wife more than his advisors._

_But if the bigwigs in D.C are to believed, behind the graceful Mrs. Pope-Grant's smile is a calculating Marie Antoinette in the wake._

_Time will tell._


	7. Sharpening the Claws

_The night before..._

**LOCATION:** THE WHITE HOUSE, Residence.

TIME: 11:00pm.

The hush had fallen. Nighttime meant the phones no longer rang and the sharp clacking of polished Oxfords against the floors had stopped. The children, Avery, Blythe and Fitz IV were fed, bathed and read to. Olivia and Fitz tended to their toddler first, making sure their blue-eyed prince was rocked to sleep. He loved to hear his mother and father serenade to him.

His favorite song was _Smile_. Every night, they made it their mission to sing it to him. That is if they were both in D.C and Fitz was not occupied in the Oval. Even when they were apart, phones and Skype did the job.

For their oldest children, they had started a tradition of reading the _Harry Potter_ books as a family the year before. They were in the thick of_The_ _Goblet of Fire._ It was their thing; a way of bonding and grounding the kids. To make sure they alleviated the pressures of the White House bubble.

To most teenagers who were developing crushes and wrapped up in their friends, the idea would seem lame, but behind the gilded walls of their White House, they were still their babies.

They still marveled and guffawed at their parents doing the voices of Dumbledore, Harry, Ron and Hermione. (Fitz did a killer Snape a la Alan Rickman impersonation that tickled Blythe to know end. Hermione was Liv's specialty.)

Now that the nightly routine was done, the First Couple had retired to their master bedroom.

The First Couple who appeared on television and in the papers, polished and refined in the best clothes were completely different behind closed doors.

As dignified and educated as they were, the truth of the matter was they were like any normal couple with a hankering for good (and bad) television.

Most would like to imagine a regal First Lady in Olivia who lounged around in silk La Perla nightgowns while reading _War & Peace_ while the President smoked a pipe.

Nope. Not even close.

Olivia Pope-Grant was propped on her satin pillows outfitted in nothing but her husband's old _Navy _T-shirt. Her face was bare and her hair was tied up in its usual bonnet as she watched the hottest HBO show, _Spies Like Us. _Popcorn from the Residence kitchen served as a companion.

The President on the other hand had just walked out the master bathroom suite, naked while drying his hair with a towel.

"You know, I'm beginning to worry that we are getting boring." Fitz observed with wistful smile on his face. His wife was so engaged in in the show, she nearly missed her mouth as she ate popcorn.

"Keep talking Grant, and I'll chop that pretty dick of yours off."

"Yeah right, you love my pretty dick."

"Shhh. This is the part!" Olivia exclaimed with an excited squeal.

He sighed deeply, taking a seat on the edge of the bed.

This was Olivia's favorite show and for the life of him he could not understand why.

There were things in life that frustrated people about their spouses. In-laws, not putting down the cover of the toilet seat, no sex.

These were not problems for them (Well, at least the no sex and the toilet seat were not). Olivia and Fitz had a serious problem with Thursday nights. They had a healthy sex life. Despite the obligations and the pressure, sex was something that was a constant (Liv had reached her sexual peak with age) with the exception of Thursdays.

No matter how horny he or she were, if it was Thursday, they were not making love. Even when the season was on hiatus, she would pull out the DVD collection or escape into her Netflix queue. If only the American people knew of the First Lady's love of this dumb show.

This horrible, mind-numbing show where characters were either staring at other characters in dramatic fashion with Indie Rock as its score or spewing award bait monologues at each other. Ew.

"He is so fine." Olivia observed absent-minded as she shoved more popcorn into her mouth. She was referencing the male lead who was, to the best of his knowledge, a spy. Why he was gratuitously shirtless at a gun range was beyond Fitz's comprehension.

Fitz cocked his eyebrows so high, they might as well have disappeared into his hairline.

The scene being played out before him was single handedly the most bizarre thing he had ever witnessed on television. Satire could not do it justice if it tried.

"Wait, I thought they hated each other?" Fitz asked slowly, trying to keep up with the absurd storyline. There was more staring and face touching happening.

Nauseating levels of face touching happened on this show. Last week there had been screaming, a shoot-out in something that was supposed to a room the Pentagon. Now? More face touching.

So it should come as no surprise that the forced whispers of "Don't let me go" and "Use me until you're full, Luke" seemed laughably strange.

"No, they secretly have feelings for one another, but she's still in love with Seamus. Pay attention, POTUS."

Huh.

The fact that Olivia relayed that piece of information in a tone that suggested their "feelings" were obvious to the viewer was troubling.

To make matters even more perplexing a sex scene, a rough one at that was beginning to unfold. At a gun range...

Yeah...

Fitz could not take it anymore. He reached over Olivia's lap, grabbed the remote and changed the channel. He needed to escape the madness.

"Hey!" Olivia yelled outraged "There is half an episode left! It's the second to last one before the season finale!" Her adorably pretty face was scrunched which triggered a snigger from her husband."

"Livvie, I am saving you from yourself."

"Seriously? Do you not want to live?" She asked taking on an defensive demeanor as she moved the empty bowl of popcorn out the way and onto the nightstand.

He rolled his eyes. "Baby, I love you. You are the love of my life and the mother of my children."

He scooted near his very irritated wife and placed his hands lovingly on his shoulders as he gazed into her eyes.

"Honey, I think you are the most beautiful, sexy and intelligent being I have ever met. But you have terrible taste in television. _Spies Like Us_ is pretentious crap."

He kissed her head with the sincerity of a veterinarian telling someone their poodle had passed away.

An ailing poodle who had cancer for months, that is. You should see it coming at this rate.

A silence hung in the air. Olivia rolled her eyes as she playfully shoved her husband's shoulder. His mocking concern caused her to soften up and giggle.

"He who watches _Mad Men_, doesn't get to call my show pretentious." She snarked as Fitz got out of bed to put his pajamas on.

As he dug around in his drawer he felt his wife's gaze tracing his naked backside. He smiled.

"Liv, _Mad Men_ is a stylized period piece and a classic. _Spies Like Us, _on the other hand is single handedly the most pretentious show ever."

"Oh, please it is not. You are just jealous of Tate Dylan."

"First of all, your little school girl crush on Mr. Steroids is your business, secondly, the show is terribly written."

A soft _whoosh_ of a pillow being thrown at him caused him him to whip around. Liv was mischievously grinning as she wagged her eyebrows.

Little minx.

"Darling don't be jealous. Tate Dylan has got nothing on you. Besides, you have a cuter ass."

He smiled extended ear to ear as Olivia gave her best "come hither" look. He slid in his pajama pants slowly and swaggered over to the bed.

The late night show on television became background noise as Fitz settled in-between Liv's well-toned thighs. As Liv pulled her husband in for a kiss , he grunted in a rather melodramatic fashion, doing his best "Tate Dylan in the throes of passion" impersonation. She let out a loud laugh. He loved how carefree she looked when she laughed, with her wide smile and bright eyes.

"You are such a jerk. Honestly, the show is not that bad. It has quite a few Emmys."

"Riiiight and _Dances with Wolves_ won an Oscar."

"Your point?"

"My point Baby, is the premise is absurd. An Israeli-Palestinian American CIA analyst, who was a former cop by the way, is in love with the Director of the CIA who just so happens to be married to the Secretary of State? And who the hell names their kid Seamus?"

Olivia laughed at her husband's bemused disposition as she stroked his curls with gentle ease.

Sometimes he lacked self-awareness which was hilarious. He was the last person who should be indignant, let alone critiquing outdated Irish names...

_Pot, have you met kettle?_

"You're forgetting the part where Alana slept with Seamus and Luke in the same week and now is pregnant. I would know who the father was if you had not changed the channel." Olivia responded in a cheeky tone as Fitz laid sweet kisses along her neck.

"Ridiculous." He said muffled, his face buried in her neck as his hands worked their way up her thighs ever so gently.

"Why is that ridi-" But before she could get a sentence out, he planted a kiss on her that had her seeing stars. The kind of kiss that created a warm hum of want in between her thighs. The kind of kiss that seared her lips and made her body crave the hardening member of her husband's that was too good to turn down.

Before she could drown in the delicious sensations of his strong body on hers and his hot tongue exploring her mouth, he pulled away.

"It is ridiculous because your father was head of the CIA for a large chunk of your formative years, your baby daddy and the man you fuck on a regular basis is the Leader of the Free world and we just had the Secretary of State over for dinner last week. Baby, you know none of that crap is real." He said this in a husky tone, though his deep baritone was dripping with sarcasm.

Did he just say baby daddy? He was hanging around her and the kids too much.

She was struggling to focus on what he was saying. He looked so good. The damp shower hair, his piercing slate colored eyes. His face was flush with sexual hunger.

"Liv? Liv...Damn Liv."

Just like that, Liv's hunger for Fitz clouded out anything else.

Maybe Thursdays were not so bad after all.

* * *

Men in power and sex. Funny. Prior to her husband, Olivia had been with her fair share of men. Wall Street types, movie stars and athletes. Even a then backbencher Congressmen who was now Speaker of the House. Time had been kind to Edison Davis's career.

None of them had anything on her husband. Maybe it was the love and intimacy woven with an understanding of each others bodies that made the sex so good.

There was no high, no feeling that could compare to the one she got from riding her husband. Most powerful men had trouble relinquishing the reins. The stereotype of powerful men "loving dominant women in the bedroom" never held true until one faithful night 15- years-ago.

A night that began in a ballroom in the Waldorf- Astoria when a sun-kissed career Naval Officer asked her to dance.

He loved to love her but even better, he loved to make her feel like a woman. To abdicate authority and make her feel equal. He responded when it was good, tight and wet. His mouth fell open, his brow furrowed with tension. He let her know.

_Fuck babe._

_You're so sexy._

_Keep doing that, Sweet Baby_.

He was man enough to make her know she had him by the balls (literally). Fitz subscribed to none of that stoic-detached machismo bullshit. Fitz was passionate, skilled and all in. He met her thrust for thrust, embedded all the way in her love.

The rush of power she got from pleasing her powerful man, watching Commander in Chief of the Armed Forces beg for it was an exquisite reinforcement.

_Yeeeeah! Right there, Fitz! Yeeesss!_

_I'm so close!_

Skin was wet with sweat, gush nectar of lust like a open faucet, as the sounds of their skin slapping together. The dim lights made everything feel like a dream.

"You like it? You like how tight it is?" She snarled as her inner muscles squeezed involuntarily, shooting a warm rush of pleasure up her spine. She was so full and stretched so thoroughly she could feel every ridge and vein.

"Fuuuuuck babe, like that, just like that." He gasped as his large hands squeezed her ass cheeks. He leaned up to tease her nipples with his tongue. The sharp triggers of orgasmic nirvana hit their bodies hard as they clung to each other desperately.

The waves thundered over them. Olivia swore she blacked out. Five times.

Five she had reached heaven's door. Two with his tongue, three together.

"Oh, babe you are amazing, so good." Fitz was giddy. The endorphins were clearly getting to him because he was rather loopy.

Liv giggled, gently nibbling in his neck lazily as the final waves of her orgasm subsided.

She enjoyed this, being in his arms as his chest heaved, fighting to a catch his breathe.

"Babe."

"Mmm"

"What are you thinking?"

"How much better that was than us watching that stupid show." grinned.

She snorted with laughter playfully biting his ear.

"Well, you made me sweat out my blowout, baby." Sometime ago, her bonnet fell off and her sleek locks were wet and wavy thanks to him.

"I wear it as a badge of honor."

"Yeah, well _I'll_ be wearing ponytails all week."

She leaned up wearily. They needed sleep or else the day ahead would kick their asses hard.

"No seriously. What are you thinking?" She asked softly, caressing his muscular chest lovingly, as she watched him peel his eyes open.

He smiled softly at her, his eyes sparklingly in admiration. Not a lustful admiration, though his hands could not stop traveling all over her sex worn body. He admired her beauty, her love, their life.

"I am the luckiest man in the world." He responded in a gruff voice.

Despite the comfort of this familiar cocoon of love and sexual intimacy, a dark thought pervaded her mind. The distraction of her work, her kids and her husband had fought off the thought that had been haunting her all day. It had emerged when Quinn had approached her with an early copy of a story appearing in the morning paper.

She avoided the subject all day. Trying to focus on what was important, but however valiant the effort, dark clouds had their way of turning into thunderstorms.

"Baby, there is something we need to talk about."

* * *

It was early in the morning. The peaceful hush of the night replaced with the harsh reality of the job.

Their jobs.

Olivia and Fitz often agreed to not talk shop during intimate moments, but duty called. .

Such is life. Especially when the Deputy Chief of Staff to the President of the United States thought his boss was pussy- whipped. Especially when he thought the whole world needed to know.

It would not be the first time, though it certainly would be the last.

Jake Ballard did not know what was coming his way; the wrath of Olivia and Fitz would strike. One of many who had crossed them. He was on the list now and his descent would be slow, torturous and delicious for them to watch.

The explosiveness of their combined force is what separated them from the average couple. One minute they were making love, the next plotting the destruction of one of

their own. How else did they overcome racist in-laws, a color struck electorate and political muck? It did not happen overnight. It took years of building the toughness and grit which propelled them into 1600 Pennsylvania Ave.

Some couple indeed.


	8. Diary of a Mad, Black Man

FLASHBACK

**TRANSCRIPT**

**AIR DATE: INAUGURATION EVE.**

_[The ticking of the clock covers the screen...The iconic Sunday newsmagazine begins._

_It is a freezing January night, millions of Americans tune in to watch the interview they had all been waiting for.]_

_**Sitting on a stool is a tall, wispy brunette CARLA STEELE, 41. She is authoritative with the disposition of a trial attorney and the warmth of a daytime talk show host. A former BNC White House Correspondent, she has moved up in the world. She begins to speak. **_

CS: Good Evening, the Presidency of the United States is a daunting task. One filled with responsibility and challenges. In nearly 48 hours, the man who I interviewed a day ago, will take on the job. His name of course is Fitzgerald Thomas Grant III.

_The screen cuts to the man of the hour. Tall, square jawed and broad-shouldered, he is classically handsome. His piercing slate colored eyes are focused in a way that makes the viewer feel as though he can see into their souls. He wears a sharp black suit and a ruby-red tie. Very Republican. The only betrayals of his 50 years across his visage are the crows feet forming around his eyes and the wisp of grey hair that was smattered along his coifed chestnut curls. _

**The interview takes place in a formal drawing room in BLAIR HOUSE. The room is formal and grandiose, giving the interview subject even more gravitas than normal.**

CS: Mr. President-Elect. Have you gotten use to being called Mr. President-Elect? (_Ms. Steele smiles)._

_The question melts the formal atmosphere. Mr. Grant grins, the light reaching his eyes._

POTUS- ELECT: I am still trying to wrap my mind around the fact that I can no longer drive on myself, so give me a week.

_**The screen cuts to **_**ELECTION DAY**_**, a large cheering crowd of people. Young, old, a multicultural tableaux of campaign volunteers and supporters in an open field; the future First Family, the strapping son, the adorable freckled face daughter, the regal and poised wife and of course, the man who will be President, waving and overwhelmed by the show of support.**_

The voice intones...

_The election, hard fought ended with history. The first interracial family to ever enter the White House, the first African-American First Lady and the widest margin of electoral victory since Ronald Reagan's landslides in the 80s. In the end, the two-term Senator from California who ran on a message of reform and change will become the 44th President of the United States_.

The screen cuts back to and Mr. Grant.

CS: Does the magnitude of the job weigh on you, now that we are so close to you officially assuming office?

POTUS-ELECT: I look at is an honor and a privilege. The privilege to represent this great nation in a time of change and I hope to govern to the best of my abilities.

CS: How will your responsibility square with the new addition to your family?

_Mr. Grant's face melts into a beaming smile. The expecting father seems elated._

_**Pictures of Mr. And Mrs. Grant**__, __**happy moments from their classic wedding, to Senatorial swearing-in ceremonies flash across the screen.**_

_**THE VOICE INTONES...**_

Exclusive to our program, the future First Couple is pleased to report that they are expecting. This will be the third child for the Grants, which will make Olivia Grant the first First Lady since Jacqueline Kennedy to be pregnant while in the White House.

_**After the commercial break, we interview the President-elect and will be joined by his very elated wife, and future First Lady ...**_

Click.

rollingstone /archives/election-coverage.

It was bookmarked.

**ROLLING STONE MAGAZINE**.

_The June issue is a mammoth. exposé on women in music, with the cover story featuring pop phenomenon. Three women, the blonde coquettish provocateur, the R&B diva supreme who's brassy mezzo-soprano arrest the soul and finally the blue-haired Rock goddess who was fronting the world's biggest band._

_One would be surprised to find a rather insightful political exposé written by one of the best young reporters around._

_Gideon Wallace was young, brilliant and fact obsessed. He did not get bogged down in the cult-of-personality bullshit of American politics. So when he pitched the idea of following around the junior Senator from California, his higher -ups could not deny him._

_He had won awards for his reporting, was featured occasionally on cable news when his articles ruffled the right feathers. He was meticulous and unbiased with not a shred of pretense. All the more reason why most politicians did not want to grant him access. He was not going to kiss ass or soft ball and probably knew more about your voting record than you did._

_But for the first time in his career, a politician had impressed him. Senator Fitzgerald Grant III (R-CA) had done the unthinkable..._

**THE GOLDEN BOY.**

_Written by _GIDEON WALLACE.

_Every now and then, a politician comes along that the beltway falls head over heels for. He is normally not very bright, forcing charisma and doing a shit poor impersonation of John F. Kennedy._

_They fall in love with pretense and not the policy. Half of the reporters who frequented the Georgetown-cocktail circuit are unknowing cheerleaders for this type. _

_The man I followed around for a day checked all the beltway approved boxes. Tall, chiseled features and a powerful Daddy who everyone gathered around to kiss his ass._

_Junior is different a different breed._

_Senator Grant III is the rare politician who understands policy and politics. He has a unique ability to narrow down complex tax policy (a cornerstone of his brand is his "reform" refrain) into simple conversation points. He's smart, without being patronizing or running down._

_I was welcomed into the Senator's home in D.C. (shocking) The place was pro forma Washington digs, in the sense that it was a swanky Georgetown townhouse. _

_However the decoration was different. African artwork littered the walls. The paints were rich reds and the home was cozy and lived in. Monopoly and Chessboards were stacked under coffee tables. Report cards of the two kids, littered with As lined the refrigerator._

_Most of these guys, you walk in their homes and it feels like the Ritz._

_The pictures on mantel pieces were of family and vacations, not world leaders and CEOs._

_When I asked Senator Grant about his the normalcy of his home, he laughed._

_"My wife and I, when it boils down to it are two working parents. We have kids you know, who have sleepovers and games. So we can't have crystal sculptures hanging in every corner."_

_The house was lively with activity. A gaggle of preteen girls and boys, friends of his kids were outside playing a while Mrs. Pope-Grant and family friend Abby Whelan drank white wine on the patio._

_It was another Saturday afternoon. A normal one that many Americans could identify with._

_The Senator was wearing cargo shorts and a UNITED STATES NAVAL ACADEMY shirt. On his messy curls, a cap._

_He was going out to buy groceries. _

_We walk onto the patio, interrupting the wife and and friends lively conversation. Looking at the woman, it was hard to believe she was a D.C power broker who had just leveraged good merger projections into a 10 million dollar payday for her firm._

_She was any normal wife and mother. Olivia Pope-Grant kissed her husband, joked around with him and reminded him to get the broccoli. The "rugrat" as he called his curly haired daughter was to follow along and make sure Daddy did not forget._

_The hilarious part of their lives was not the fact it was normal, but-_

He had to stop. He thought to himself as he slammed his MacBook Pro shut. The room, aglow with the artificial light of the laptop was now dim with the glow of a dying fire.

Edison Davis had to stop scouring the internet and torturing himself in such a masochistic manner. He did this to himself everytime. Every January since-

Since arrived at that Olivia DuPont Circle condo housewarming with a bottle of wine and was greeted by Big Jerry's boy.

Edison and Olivia had history. The golden couple. The bastion of all that was good in the elite Black circles of D.C. They grew up together, attended all the right schools, belonged to _Jack and Jill_. They were made for each other.

So he thought.

He took a swing of bourbon, his office aglow with the light of a cozy night fire reflected on his ageless face.

He was a powerful man. Speaker of the House. Yet everyday, he was haunted by his lost of the biggest prize.

Maybe, in another life, if he had reigned in his appetite for women and power, he would be the first Black President. Maybe his father would not look at him with disappointment.

_She is your key, son! Our best chance at you making it to the White House and you squandered it! Together, you are the black Kennedy's. Without her pedigree, you are nothing!_

Once again, William Davis's harsh words range in his son's ears.

He remembered that day like it was yesterday. The day when the _Washington Post_ had printed a write-up about a Director of Polling for BNC and the Naval Aviator who's heroics in the Gulf had made him a national hero (and future Senator)

Edison still could feel the stinging embarrassment of loss. Once again, a white boy was beating him out.

Everyone who was anyone knew what that meant.

The church ladies could not get enough. Lord did they chew over the breakup.

_I heard they are getting married._

_Isn't Grant too old off her?_

_Well, you know like mother, like daughter. Them Pope women sure do like their men white and rich, don't they? Maya always thought her and her daughter were too good for us. _

_Mmmhhmm. Poor Secretary Pope bless his soul. If he were alive, he would put a stop to that nonsense._

_Wasn't she going with Pastor Davis's boy? I was looking forward to that wedding. I could see it now, pretty in the Inkwell, a summer wedding._

_Yeah, well rumor has it she caught him with one of the reporter girls. You know, Kimberly Mitchell? Bryan's daughter?_

_You don't say?_

_She and Maya's daughter were good friends. Only black girls in their class at Sidwell. I used to baby sit Secretary Pope's girl before she left to boarding school in Europe. Those girls were as thick as thrives._

_Yup. Imagine the scandal, her boyfriend and her childhood friend? Poor thing, and her daddy just died? Good thing it was kept quiet. Davis wants to run for Congress._

_She had enough, packed her things and moved back with her momma in NY for a while. Then she met Grant and moved back._

_Mmmhmm, she workin' for Cyrus Beene now. Nice job too._

_Well, Ms. Lawrence was telling me ol' girl is about to tie the knot to Grant any day now..._

_That Davis boy sure did ruin a good thing. Gone and lost her to a white boy. A Grant at that. Mmm Mmm Mmm..._

For the past 13 or so years, these conversations had been rehashed over and over again. They made for good Sunday afternoon stories amongst his mother' friends (and enemies)

From the older black men in the Congressional Black Caucus, came pity. The ones who had marched with Martin and Malcom Edison should have been the one. _Wasted potential_, they whispered.

_He still hasn't found a girl. Sleeping with anything that moves._

_Americans like family, ya know?_

He had disappointed them.

Edison saw it in their faces everytime.

_Boy, that could have been you._

What he would do to turn back time, to stop Olivia from leaving that day.

To stop her from meeting Grant.

To prevent getting invited to Olivia's new condo for a dinner party only to find her shacking up with Grant.

She had her bohemian friends, that flaming Novak character, the annoying red head all kissing Grant's ass that night, rubbing his triumph in his face. He won. Grant had won her heart. The way she looked at him, the fact that she could not keep her hands off him made him hot with anger.

He took another sip of his bourbon.

What would he not do to get his Liv back?

Now, on the eve of Grant's inauguration, he sat bitter in his office, fighting tears. Once again he had fallen short of his father's expectations.

Hr could not bring himself to watch the whole interview or see them swelling with pride over their future child. Tomorrow, he would smile and shake hands with the couple, but tonight, he would give anything to switch places with the man who would be president in less than 24 hours.


	9. The Hovering Cloud of the Past

**Two Years Ago.**

LOCATION: POPE, FINCH & ASSOCIATES, 1970 K. Street, Washington D.C 2006.

K Street is not what it once was. The lobbying haven was more think- tank/law firm friendly now. The employees you often saw pouring out of the buildings these days were very different from the men who ran the town back in the day.

Back then they were grey-haired, venerable and they accessorized with pot bellies and high-priced suits. Now they were younger, hipper and smarter with noses buried in iPhones instead of _The Wall Street Journal._

It was also the kind of place that would not have a woman or person of color in an authority position beyond being an office manager. No way was it the kind of place where one of the nations most successful crisis management and communication firms would house a Black female Founding /Managing partner. _Pope, Finch & Associates _had represented the dawn of change.

_...provides crisis management, strategic communications, public affairs and public relations counsel..._

That is what the glossy website said.

The place was virtually unrecognizable from the shabby offices that were once located on Carroll Square, in the Northwest corner of the city.

The new offices, which had moved here nearly 10 years ago now were five floors of immaculate suites, with receptionists, nebbish research staffers and Mac computers gleaming on the shinny desk, desk carved from the finest of dark mahogany.

The partner suites, located on the top floor of the firm were large, spacious and sunny, offering Mrs. Pope-Grant and Mr. Finch, premium privacy that would have left the original employees salivating at the mouth.

A Latina secretary (one who he did not recognize) well-dressed and slender, sat at a desk outside the partner suites, answered phones with the efficiency of a assembly line employee.

"Pope, Finch & Associates? Elaine calling?"

"Please hold."

"Mrs. Pope-Grant is in a meeting right now."

"Mr. Finch is out to lunch with a client ma'am."

Gone were the days of cold pizza and young twenty somethings burning the midnight oil.

_Damn, Olivia. You really turn this place into something else._

Cyrus Rutherford Beene sat patiently in the waiting area of the 10th floor, slowly taking in what had once been the brainchild of he and his prodigy. It had been_ Beene & Pope_ once upon a time. This had occurred right after he had stepped down from his tiring position as Secretary of Education nearly decade ago. His high blood pressure and wallet needed a much needed change.

After decades of working in the government, whether as Director of Legislative Affairs to the White House or Chief of Staff of the Senate Minority Leader, he had spent the 90s feeling out of place in New D.C. This new era of politics meant cashing out on your good name and position. It meant you lobbied and worked for lofty institutions like _The Heritage Foundation _and became a well-compensated talking head on BNC or CNN.

While he could not bring himself to lobby, he realized his old friends who had fought in the trenches of as campaign managers and relished being activists for the Republican cause had abandoned him in the trenches.

He was admired and revered but often looked upon with pity from his cohorts.

Living in his tiny Delaware Ave matchbox apartment would no longer cut it. Neither would his outdated suits or scuffed shoes. He was woefully out of place.

Even more out of place than being a openly gay Republican in an increasingly conservative party.

So after two years of serving at the pleasure of the President of the United States, he came up with a quick scheme to finally buy his dream home, he took out a loan, called some friends (who had loaned out former interns and young staffers) and created a crisis management firm which mostly served the D.C elite.

Now, it had three offices ( Los Angeles, New York, and of course D.C) had represented movie stars, Heads of State and if rumors were to be believed was expanding by acquiring a small, yet profitable polling firm.

Huh.

Once upon a time, the firm, helmed by him and a newly married mother in Olivia, the firm had been small and boutique. It held less than 20 employees and often held meetings in the client's home or office. Now it had two conference rooms in the D.C office.

However Cyrus Beene could only be enraptured by money's sweet hold for so long. He left the firm to run congressional campaigns and eventually took the chair job running National Republican Congressional Committee (NRCC).

So here he was, sitting in the waiting room to meet with Olivia, like he had many times before, it hit him how much he no longer recognized his baby. The wall in the lobby had etched in her name. Her partner...

Not his.

His musings would only carry on so long because the rhythmic _click clack _of expensive footwear suddenly signaled that her meeting was over. The closed office door labeled:

_ Olivia Pope-Grant_

** MANAGING PARTNER **

opened to reveal the woman herself escorting a client out.

Olivia was dressed in a crisp white French cuff dress shirt, adorned golden cufflinks that sparkled under the bright florescent lights of the sitting area. Her well-tailored crème slacks were the perfect cross between professional and fashionable in its cut. Her make-up was virtually non-existent yet her smooth brown skin was blemish free and bore no signs of stress, motherhood or time.

Gorgeous did not begin to touch how she looked.

The client in question, tall, lithe and sliver-haired was dressed in a sharp suit and seemed to be very engrossed in what Olivia was telling him. He nodded frequently and seemed to be eager to listen.

Cyrus was stunned. The client was a well-known journalist with a cushy primetime slot on cable news.

What the hell was he doing talking to Liv?

You came into the offices when you or your company were in trouble.

Unless?

The rumors were true.

"...the rollout should be subtle I don't want-" The journalist cut his conversation short as his icy blue eyes cut in Cyrus's direction. They had known each other for a while, thanks to Cyrus spending way too much time in greenrooms in this town.

And the occasional gay bar...

"Cyrus, how good to see you." The journalist said in a clipped tone. Judging by his reddening face, the Cyrus was the last person he wanted to run into.

Cyrus made his way onto his legs and shook the man's hand. Cyrus's eyes traveled from the man to Olivia. Olivia's face may have been plastered with the most professional of smiles, but her large brown eyes held a mischievous gleam. She ran a manicured hand through thick mane of ebony locks as she observed the two men interacting.

Yup, exactly what he thought.

"What brings you here, Cyrus?" The man asked with force politeness.

"Just visiting a friend. I like to keep in touch with my old firm." He answered in a sacchrine sweet voice as he gestured toward Olivia.

"Of course, of course and you?"

"He and I are old friends. Georgetown pals." Olivia covered nicely, cutting through what could have been an awkward moment.

"Right, of course. I forgot. Hope there are not any skeletons buried in your closet." Cyrus joked.

It was clearly a barb. A feel around by a man who knew what it was like to suppress a secret that huge. Though the forced laughter from both Olivia and the journalist only served to underline how monumental the moment was. Unease colored the small talk until the journalist left in an awkward hurry.

The elevator could not have come faster enough.

After the client had left, Olivia and Cyrus exchanged a meaningful look. Unfortunately for Cyrus, Olivia's poker face would not waiver.

"Liv?"

"What?"

"Oh come on, you can tell me!"

"Actually, contractually and legally I _can't_ tell you."

"Since when-"

Olivia tilted her head, raising her eyebrows to signal that it was best to take this conversation in her office.

He followed her lead, but before they encased themselves behind the office suite, Olivia stopped by the secretary's desk.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Grant."

Olivia smiled that smile of hers. It was the one where all the muscles in her face seemed to be at battle with each other. For those who did not know her well, it was a pretty and polite smile.

Cyrus, on the other hand had known her for years and had practically had a hand in raising her.

There was a reason why the firm was called _**Pope**__, Finch & Associates_, not Grant. Despite her aversion to people star-fucking her in D.C circles because of her parents, she hated when people merely dismissed her as Senator Grant's wife. Hence the hyphenated name.

_I'd rather people attribute my success to the people who gave birth to me, which is wrong, but still less insulting that crediting my husband with my success. It diminishes both his and my accomplishments._

Olivia had told this to an arrogant client years ago who had the nerve to suggest she was only partner at her age because she married a Grant.

This secretary was clearly new.

"Yeah, I need my itinerary for flight next Monday and make sure to let me know when Stephen arrives from..._lunch_."

Olivia said this in a dangerously quiet and calm voice. It had all the icy detachment that was commonly associated with the automated voice one hears over a PA system. With each passing second that Olivia and Cyrus stood over her, the young woman seemed to shrink into the white wall behind her. Her emerald eyes seemed to widen with a blend of admiration and fear.

The secretary swallowed hard and nodded fiercely but before the conversation could go on any further, the phone on her desk began to ring saving her from any further embarrassment as Olivia continued into her office, with Cyrus following cautiously in her wake.

The young woman would learn eventually.

He closed the door behind them and looked around at the office. It looked the same as always. The pictures of her and Fitz on their wedding day, vacations with the kids and her signature white orchids in antique vases on the coffee table and the bookcase.

What was different was a new picture that was on display.

The picture was of young people, arms around each other and had all the faded glory and fashion choices of a mid-90s club photo.

There was the leggy Linda Evangelista look-alike that was Alicia Grant. Her dark waves, reminiscent of her brother's cascaded down her shoulders. The signature slate colored "Grant" eyes were all smolder and sex. Her statuesque figure was draped in a chiffon jumpsuit.

Then there was the fiery redhead, outfitted in a Lycra black dress, Abby Whelan smiling wide and providing bunny ears to a petite young black woman who was wearing a mini-Union Jack dress before Ginger Spice made it popular. She had a nose ring, attitude for days as she mugged for the camera. A young, wild and very carefree Olivia Pope, whose hair was a wild halo of onyx curls.

The three amigos and their gay lancer James.

James had taken the picture, hence why he was not in it. James, who he knew had taken that picture. Cyrus remembered that picture (along with many like it) from an old photo album that he kept in their den at home.

Times of memories gone. When the four of them prowled clubs and took no prisoners.

Ibiza, Spain. The Last Summer...

Before life hit.

The good times had rolled.

Before she had reconnected with Fitz and fell in love with him..

Before Alicia went to law school.

Before Abby married that punk that bashed her face in.

Young, beautiful and carefree.

"Cyrus!" Olivia exclaimed, snapping him out of his staring contest with the old photo. Olivia had a bemused look painted on her pretty features.

"Why do you have that?"

"You mean the picture?"

"Yes."

"It's a free country Cy."

"Don't get cute."

Silence arrested the sunny office as Olivia rolled her eyes like a petulant child.

"Abby was spring cleaning and she found it. I thought it was a nice picture."

Cyrus could feel the blood pumping in his ears. The reason he was here. The reason he had a folded copy of a _Time Magazine_ article folded in his breast pocket was why that picture should not be on display.

"Liv, people cannot see that-"

Olivia plopped down on her chair, looking up at Cyrus with boredom. Her eyes were glazing over.

"Why? Because I was never young? Besides who of my clientele really gives a fuck about pictures in my office. The picture is completely innocent!"

Cyrus wiped a frustrated hand over his face.

He whipped out the article and slammed it on her desk.

All the careless indifference of Olivia's disposition melted away when her round brown eyes widened with disbelief as she skimmed the article. So much for gossiping about her client over lunch.

The article was due to appear in the new issue, next week but having a husband who was editor of the _D.C Times_ had its perks.

The article's picture was identical to the one on the one on her bookcase.

The headline read:

**THE WILD SOCIALITES of DC: How a group of spoiled brats grew up and took over the world.**

"In case you were wondering why you need to get rid of that picture this is why. Fitz's PAC money just started rolling in, he is scheduled to go to Iowa next month, and now we have articles about your club- hopping days. They have a nice paragraph dedicated to you voguing with Ru Paul New Years Eve at Tunnel. Oh, and then there is the story about Abby getting drunk at P.J Clarke's and smoking cigars with Rob Lowe, or how Alicia went streaking in the Quad at Georgetown-"

"Enough, I get it. So is that why you are here Cy. To lecture me on the errors of my youth?" Olivia sassed as her eyes skimmed the article."

"No, I was going to come and visit my favorite prodigy in the world and wonder if you and Fitz were still going to make our dinner party on Saturday. But, James being the caring friend that he is to you, emailed this to me this morning. He was too busy stop in himself."

Olivia sighed deeply, crossing her arms across her chest.

"How the hell did they even get this picture?"

Cyrus grimaced.

"Aside from us living in the 21st century, Page Six back in the day published it. But I doubt you would remember that."

Olivia snorted derisively as she balled up the article and threw it out.

"Please. I hardly remember most of my boarding school days, let alone the early 90s. I got this Cy." She said as casually as one talks about the weather.

The two, mentor and pupil looked at each other knowing that when Olivia said she got it, she had it.

There were more articles like this to come.

"Besides, the article is wrong anyway. Abby was drinking Black & Tans with John."

"John as in John Jr, John-John?..." Cyrus asked hesitantly, knowing the answer before Olivia relayed it.

"Yes. They had a fling before he married Carolyn. You know, he hated being called John-John. Only. the press ever called him that. He was such a sweetheart. I wished it would have worked out." Olivia sighed wistfully.

A silence filled the room. He had always had some vague idea of Olivia, James, Alicia and Abby's youthful exploits but this was too much.

Olivia smirked at Cyrus's clear discomfort. Despite what this absurd article claimed, most would never know the half of what they got away with back in the day...


	10. David vs Goliath: The Battle Starts

**Hello, glad to be getting all these positive reviews. I really am enjoying writing this story****( if the frequent updates were not an indication). Please continue to review, provide feedback, positive or negative about the story. I really look forward to it. **

**For those who are may be confused by the format, I'd like to think of my story a scrapbook. Everything comes full circle instead of it following a linear chronological approach. It makes it fun because I can explore the same event from different vantage points. So by the end, chapters have symmetry.**

**Thanks again for reading. I really appreciate it. **

* * *

LOCATION: 1600 PENNSYLVANIA AVE, East Wing, Office of the First Lady of the United States.

DATE: May 11th, 2013.

TIME: 12:30pm.

Rare, though it happened, the President had space in his schedule. He was not sure if Cyrus and his schedulers had missed it, but after his National Security Briefings, his meeting with the Congressional leadership over coffee about the upcoming budget negotiations and meeting with his Secretary of State Thornton, where she gave him a debrief on her trip to Russia, there was nothing.

Blank.

Instead of alerting anyone in his senior staff to this discrepancy, he let his Assistant, Lauren know he would be in the East Wing with the First Lady after calling to confirm that his wife also had free time.

During the day, they were often incredibly busy and hardly saw each other without being scheduled. They really only had time on the weekends and at night for "couple time".

A little spontaneous rendezvous would not hurt anyone.

As he arrived to his wife's office, there were the customary nervous greetings of "Good Afternoon, Mr. President", and "Good to see you" from the First Lady's staffers. He found her staffers a breath of fresh air, young friendly and lacking the stick-up-the-ass air of his side of the building.

Peoples idea of letting loose in the West Wing was telling stories about who they ran into in the _Morning Joe _greenroom.

Suffice to say he needed to unwind.

"Good morning Veronica." He greeted brightly as he approached the Assistant's desk.

She was a bright young woman who was dating one of the Press Aides in Jeannie's office.

"Hi, Mr. President!" She greeted politely. As she made to stand up, he put his hand up as if to say "don't even worry about it."

"How are you doing? Olivia keeping you busy?" He joked.

She chuckled, shaking her head.

"Not too busy."

"If she is loading you up with too much work, don't worry, I'll have a talk with her." He said in a faux conspiratorial voice.

Veronica always got a kick out of the President and First Lady's sense of humor.

The door to Olivia's office opened, with Olivia sticking her neck out the cracked door.

"Veronica, is this man bothering you?" Liv joked, a big smile playing across her face.

Fitz winked at Olivia as she waved him over to come into the office.

Veronica was practically in hysterics when the President mouthed "See! So demanding" over his shoulder as he walked into his wife's office. She greeted his cheeky remark with a playful slap on the shoulder as she closed the door behind him, blocking out pearls of Veronica's laughter and the rest of the world.

Though he had seen her this morning before he had headed to the Oval, she had not been dressed yet. A silk robe had been her mode of attire. Now, her in full "First Lady regalia" was having an effect on his ability to think straight.

He took her in the body hugging dress which made a nice display of her..._assets_ and could not help but lick his lips in anticipation. Almost reading his mind Olivia locked eyes with her husband and shook her head, no.

Their escapades last night would be the only lovemaking to hold him over until they were behind the comfort of the bedroom.

As she made her way toward the table by the window, groaning under a delicious display of food (which she had sent from the kitchens; Fitz had a bad habit of skipping lunch unless forced to eat), he wrapped his arms around her waist and buried his face in her neck.

She would be lying if she sad the idea of a rendezvous in the office did not appeal to her. For whatever reason, he looked exceptionally handsome, more than usual today and the silvery-blue Hugo Boss tie, made his eyes pop rather nicely.

Though duty calls. This was to be a working lunch.

The sensation of being in close proximity with each other, whether it was Olivia's taunt ass pressed against his crotch or how Fitz's hands were traveling from up her thighs to her breasts was causing the mood to become more romantic than intended.

"This was supposed to be a nice lunch for us." Olivia said quietly, her longing thickening her tongue, making her sound breathy.

Fitz chuckled as he placed a sensual kiss on behind her ear.

"Are you on the menu?" He whispered, causing a bolt of pleasure to radiate through her body.

She turned around in his arms, staring into his stormy eyes. His nose and ears, flushed and red with want. His lips, looked so kissable. She wrapped her arms around his neck as his circled closer around her waist. The pull between them was magnetic.

Their heads came together as their lips met in an erotic tango. Lips danced, tongues became acquainted but before they got to far, the logical part of her brain signaled the end of their make-out session.

He broke the kiss to explore the contours of her neck when words that were strategic in choice left her lips.

"How did the meeting with the leadership go?"

That was that. He smirked, shaking his head. Fitz could not help but admire his wife's skill. There was nothing more mood killing than her bring up the budget negotiations, specifically, the meeting today. The fact that he had to sit and listen to Edison Davis lecture him on being prudent on fiscal matters was one thing.

Olivia bringing it up, when he was ripe and ready for sex was another.

He shook his head at her, breaking their embrace and walking over to the table, taking seat. Just like a good boy should. Any excitement he had been getting below the belt had deflated. Playtime was definitely over, he thought as she strutted her way confidently to the table.

"What?" Olivia asked mischievously, grinning a Cheshire cat grin. Her eyes were bright as she took a seat, opposite her husband.

He tilted his head, leveling an expression of skepticism. Her coyness, however adorable was very obvious.

Olivia knew her husband inside and out. If he had spent the last decade and a half knowing what turned him on, you could bet your life, she knew how to turn him off.

The table was adorned with a cold crystal pitcher of ice tea, two drinking goblets, adorned with gold rims. White linen napkins folded artistically were placed next to polished silverware and two beautifully assembled plates of Cobb salad.

Quite the feast.

"Well doesn't this look delicious?" Olivia inquired in an airy matter. She proceeded to delicately tuck in her salad which completely put the kibosh on any frisky adult time.

"You are evil." Fitz said, snark dripping in his tone, as he reached over to grab the pitcher and pour himself a glass.

Olivia elegantly unwrapped her napkin and pressed the corners to her full lips. Her mannerisms so pointed, that it was clear she was not going to concede she had gotten her way and won. She was gloating gracefully.

"I have no idea what you are referring to Mr. President, though I will have you know I had them leave out chives. I know how much you hate them." She said playfully.

It was emblematic of how their relationship worked. The dimensions of comfort they had with one another. They could go from playfully goofing around with Veronica to lustful bouts of kissing to sarcastic jujitsu all within minutes.

"Mmm. I can see that." Fitz said taking a sip of his drink and thanking heavens for his wife's knowledge of his food preferences. Chives were the worst.

"So back to the leadership meeting, how was it?"

Before Fitz could pick up his fork to dig in, his mind raced back to the meeting early that morning. It was pretty standard but the level of back and forth between the Republican Minority Leader, Jim Bower and Speaker Edison Davis had been even more acrimonious than usual.

The two men were different. Davis, the liberal bastion of the House and the future of his party vs. the drawling Congressmen from Missouri who prided himself on his hard line conservative record. The two men had always been cordial, at least in Fitz's experience, but today was different.

"It was...I don't even know how to explain it."

"How do you mean? Meh, the chicken was a bit dry, but overall, not bad."

"Davis was being more Davis than usual."

"How is that even possible?"

"I know, right. Its like his ego was on steroids or something. All this posturing and speaking in talking points. Call me crazy, but-"

Fitz shook his head. The idea was foggy and had crossed his mind. In this climate of electoral politics, anything was possible. He had been a successful, high-profile politician for years. A man who, despite his arrogance (and having a new trophy girlfriend on his arm every time a new session of Congress started) commanded respect and was third in line to the Presidency.

Olivia placed her fork down, quietly observing her husband, who was lost in thought. He was playing with his salad as his eyebrows furrowed with worry. She was not sure why the thought popped in her head.

Edison Davis was a smart, handsome and powerful legislator but he was way too dovish with war for center-right Middle Americans to stomach, reeked of inside the beltway entitlement and most importantly, did not seem as though he had set up a PAC or courted big dollar Democrats or even set up an exploratory committee.

"You think he's running?" Olivia asked slowly.

Fitz looked at his wife and cocked an eyebrow as though to signal she had hit the nail on the head.

"That doesn't make sense practically -"

"-but all the signs are there, theoretically." Fitz completed his wife's thought.

"He was speaking in talking points, very vague and this is Davis, he's a wonk and loves to get bogged down in line items. He lives for that shit."

Olivia pondered her husbands observations. The best defense was always the best offense. Poll-wise, Fitz was safe so the pundits and pollsters said. Hovering barely over 50% in most polls. Foreign Policy, he was untouchable but income inequality was an issue gaining a lot of traction. The Republican lines about "class warfare" and "capitalism" were falling on death ears.

While Fitz had advocated for fairer tax reform and had hoped for a bill out of Ways and Means Committee, the Sally Langston wing of the party had rejected the idea.

If after two more years of tense budget negotiations, the country got tired, who is to say Edison; young, idealistic and liberal wouldn't be appealing to middle class voters...?

"Why don't you have Leo and the Communication boys poll him? Just to be safe?" Olivia offered.

Fitz shook his head.

"You know why we can't." He said giving her a pointed look.

The 210 pound elephant in the room.

"Jake." Olivia responded, her relaxed disposition taking on a much more business like tone.

Between the leaks, his canoodling with the press and his vainglorious attempts to heighten his profile, they had decided last night he had to be destroyed. Not fired, destroyed.

"I know you hate him-"

"-if by 'hate' him, I think he is an arrogant craven 'dude-bro' who is blind to his privilege at best and a self-aggrandizing asshole at worst, then yes."

A silence took over the room as Fitz bore the brunt of his wife's sharp gaze.

They had agreed to tame the fucker and destroy him. Though there were occasions when Olivia liked to remind him that bringing him into to the inner circle was a bad idea. He had dismissed her, saying she was biased because he was also a protege of Cyrus and was being territorial.

Now, he had to face the fact: he had been a very wrong.

That was the last time he did not listen to his wife.

"Well, far be it for me to cry over spilled milk we need to have him by the balls. Quinn has confirmed he is fooling around with Chandler. From what she said, Chandler is vapid and would do anything for a story. So we have the first plan worked out." Olivia said polishing of her salad.

Fitz nodded. Leo would be leaking stories on their behest to other journalists and while Jeannie would squeeze out her access in the Press Room. She would not be picked on, never given scoops from now on.

Vanessa Chandler was a Mean Girl who would implode by being kicked out the cool kids club.

Dealing with Judas?

Disloyalty would not be tolerated.

"By the way, Cyrus is leaving the White House." Fitz said casually.

Olivia's mouth dropped. They had him and James over the Residence for dinner last week and the State Dinner with Gardot, he had joked about working "until he was 200". Nothing was said about this. Where was this coming from?

"What?"

"We were talking this morning, I meant to tell you but I forgot, but he's tired. His doctor told him he needs to slow down, Ella is getting older and he wants to be there more. I mean Livvie, I could see it in his eyes. His heart just isn't here anymore."

Olivia could understand. Cyrus was older now. The campaign had been rough on him and the conflict of interest between him being Chief of Staff and James being an Editor for the _D.C Times_ was distracting.

"We need to talk to him Liv. He's going through a transition."

"Of course. We can do that when we all go to Camp David. When is he announcing this?"

Fitz shrugged. The conversation had been one in passing. He was his right hand man. His co-pilot. He was indispensable to them as a staffer, an advisor and most importantly as a friend. He was practically family.

"We need to make sure his retirement is smooth." Olivia said thoughtfully.

Fitz looked at Olivia confused. Retirement was an absurd concept for a man like Cyrus. His face was shadowed with confusion as he finished his salad.

"I never said he was retiring, I said he was leaving." Fitz said as he chewed.

"Don't chew with your mouth full. How do you mean?" Olivia asked.

"Cyrus is tired of the hours, the stress but I was thinking he would want something more flexible, maybe do some consulting...work."

Olivia was confused by her husband's cryptic tone. However it did not take long for her to catch on.

"Livvie?"

"No. Not, absolutely not. Look I care about him as much as the next person but I am not having him back at the firm!"

Fitz rolled his eyes in frustration, throwing his hands up. He pinched the bridge of his nose as tension circled the room.

"We have talked about this. I built that firm when he left! And I will be damned if we get of here in a few years and it is _Beene, Finch & Associates. _That's mine. I am still a partner." Olivia was practically seething. It wad incredibly annoying that Fitz kept forgetting that.

"Liv? Seriously? You are a _silent_ partner. You stepped down as Managing Partner." He responded as calmly as he possibly could.

Olivia stood up, hands on her hips.

"Yes, because I had to as First Lady. I still plan in returning someday."

They both knew that was not true. She, as a former First Lady playing office politics and working for CEO clients hardly made sense. It was diminishing.

"I am, was an equity partner. Something Cyrus has not been. He was a salary partner before he left."

"So have Stephen take him in as in-house counsel-"

"Oh, please! When was the last time he practiced law? Before I was born? I am sure there are plenty of firms or universities who would love to have him."

Olivia began pacing in circles. A dangerous sign. Fitz watched her for a while before getting up and stopping her.

He looked her in her eyes took her hands in his and kissed forehead.

They shared a look. They had talked about it, but she was unsure. Did she have what it took?

"By the time we get out of here, my old Senate seat will be empty."

"I know."

"Livvie, baby, look at me." He said, fighting for her to maintain eye contact."

"I know what this is about. You are afraid of Cyrus taking over and erasing your accomplishments. I get it, no standing in my or Cyrus's shadow. You are afraid of being known as just my wife but, you don't have to be. Come here." He sat down on the loveseat she was pacing in front of and pulled her into his lap.

He cuddled her. He knew what her grip was.

"Look, you are the smartest person I know. You have been a pollster, a crisis manager, a CEO. You are more than qualified. You understand policy in a way that most don't. You have what it takes."

"But what if I lose? What if people think of it as nepotism. What if-"

"Hey!" Fitz said, kissing her cheek tenderly.

Olivia had entertained the idea on the campaign trail to her sister-in-law and good friend after they had campaigned for Fitz in Ohio.

_Alicia, I think I want to run for office someday._

_Yeah?_

_Yeah._

"You will not lose. I will go to every steak fry and county fair. I will drive the campaign truck if I have to." He joked.

They embraced, sharing a loving kiss.

"Thank you for the endorsement." Olivia said, stroking her husband's cheek as he admired her beauty."

"No problem."

A comfortable silence took over, though it did not last long. A light bulb popped in Olivia's head.

"Baby, is it okay if I call Jake here? I need to talk to him. You are welcome to join me?" She said, playing with the lose curl dangling in his eyes.

Confusion danced across Fitz's face as he pulled back slightly.

"Umm...sure, hopefully he's free, why?"

Olivia shrugged, her face widening in a hugh smile.

Predators like to play with their food before they kill their game.

"I like to keep my enemies close. How about we have Scheduling and Advance add him to our Camp David trip. I'm sure Alicia will _love_ him."

The coy tone of his wife was slowly melting away is confusion.

Of course.

The best defense was the best offense.

This would be fun.


	11. A Peak Behind the Scenes

**Author's note. **

**Thanks again for reviewing and reading my story. The more reviews, the better. I live for feedback. It's the most rewarding part of writing fan fiction.**

**Thoughts on the new episode:**

As far as the Season 4 opener...yeah. Not for nothing, but the most obvious things happened. Nothing was shocking or unexpected but the island destination.. I was thinking more of the Maldives or the Dominican Republic, but cool. It was painfully predictable, right down to the last-minute Olitz scene. I hardly see how it made sense to keep such a tight lid on the episode, from not running promos, to the "NO SPOILER" nonsense.

Fitz and Mellie are miserable. Check.

Jake and Olivia's relationship is stalled because she is still in love with Fitz and Jake is insecure and whiny. Check.

A case of the week. Check.

A Olitz scene playing on the audiences sentimentality for their relationship, but contained no substance.. Sigh, deeper sigh. Check.

OPA disbanding and Harrison's death. Check.

Some of the scenes felt ripped from fanfiction. In fact, my story _Mission Accomplished_ has Quinn finding Olivia, David becoming Attorney General, Abby moving on, Harrison missing, then dead...Huh.

This is obviously a coincidence. I would not deign to assume they read fanfiction for inspiration, but I think if they did, the show would be a lot better. I am merely saying they are becoming a bit predictable and are clearly stuck in a rut.

Creativity is lacking in Shondaland. They need a breath of fresh air.

It was neither good nor bad, it was just...meh. Everything is how I assumed would be, but hoped not to be, but I gave them too much credit. I thought the writers would try better, but then again, why aspire to anything greater. Complacency has always been their thing.

**Anyway, hope you enjoy this chapter. It is a bit of a breather for what is to come. **

* * *

_The preview for the May Issue was up on the website. A spectacular photo shoot of the First Lady and her children is gawked at by the beltway. Though only a few photos had been released ahead of official print. Unlike the formal spread from two years ago that had Olivia-Pope Grant dawned in gowns and sheath dresses, photographed in Blair House (the tagline had 'Washington Royalty'), this layout was casual. Think Ralph Lauren fall ad; American preppy chic with a blend of French Country. No stylist, no make-up team. Just the crew and her children. _

_The pictures had been taken by famed photographer Annie __Leibovitz on the Grants' Vermont property. They are sepia-treated and could easily pass as a Kennedy family photo shoot. Camelot 2.0, indeed._

[Photo #1] _Mrs. Pope-Grant dressed in a __**Brooks Brothers **__grey argyle sweater, __**J Brand**__ dark washed skinny jeans and __**Stuart Weitzman**__ riding boots. She holds her young son, Fitzgerald Thomas Grant IV, is in her arms. He smiles a wide toothless grin. The toddler boy has a honey brown complexion child, dark brown curls, pouty lips and cherub-like face. He has the most hypnotic eyes, which stand in sharp contrast with his dark skin. They are in the lush greenhouse, picking fresh fruit. It is a candid shot, a beaming mother, a lovely moment. _

[Photo # 2] _The older children, Avery Grant and Blythe Grant are in the kitchen with their mother, helping her make jam. The oldest son, square-jawed, tall and handsome is incredibly poised. He is outfitted in a Yale sweater (his dad's post-Annapolis Alma Mater), tan cargo shorts and Keds. He has a quiet disposition that makes him seem older than his 16 years, as if he is very aware of his surroundings at all times. His younger sister, 13 is a willowy stunner that is a tad more carefree. Freckles, sandy brown coils and a kind, heart-shaped face, she is the most similar to her father's coloring than her brothers. Her hazel eyes (inherited from her maternal grandfather) are aglow with laughter. Happy family. A mother bonding with her children. _

[Photo # 3] _The First Lady, head, thrown back in laugher, a hand in her dark locks is on the phone. She is lounging on a beautiful leather ottoman in a sitting room. She is speaking to the President on the phone, away on a trip to visit troops stationed in East Sudan. She is dressed in a large black cashmere crew sweater (belongs to the President), black leggings and UGG boots. She anticipates his arrival tonight. _

**Vanity Fair {Excerpt}**

May 3013

_In the Country: An afternoon with the First Lady_

_**An exclusive, never before seen look at the Grants Estate in Vermont, the kids and what it is like do you own cooking as First Lady.**_

The day is breezy yet sunny. The perfect spring day has dawned. The estate, a labor of love from the President to the First Lady when they married many years ago is the perfect blend of the two personalities. You see the All-American California prep in the sunny sitting rooms, the patio, overlooking an expansive lake, is furnished with classic oak furniture. There is even a vintage surfboard that hangs from above a mantle piece in the upstairs great room, very much President Grant's doing. When you enter the kitchen however, French doors, distressed cabinets and spices imported from Cannes in the spice rack, scream the of the First Lady's Creole roots.

"My childhood was split, at least in the summer between the Bayous and the [Martha's] Vineyard. My mother's side of the family, Bouvier-Lewis side, is from Louisiana. When I got older, my parents were separated; my mother would spend her summers in France. So the French influence is pretty pervasive." Mrs. Pope-Grant said with a laugh. She had made croque-à-cheval for me and the children for brunch. All this after a morning spent hiking and making jam with the children. The kids were in an adjacent room, watching movies as I interviewed her. The youngest, a toddler had been put down for his nap as we sat and spoke.

Most will tell you, Olivia-Pope Grant is an engaging woman. Poised and polished as she is, she speaks with a casualness in private settings that puts people at ease. She lacks the veneer of Washington pretense; at least it seems that way, one-on-one. This extends to her lack of a full staff. She is doing her on cooking on vacation, why?

"Well, for one I enjoy it, and frankly, this is our space, I view it as an honor and a privilege to live in the White House, however, I am limited in my domestic capacities there. I obviously don't cook or clean much and I like doing it here. I view this as home away from the structure of the White House, where I am just 'Livvie' and 'Mom'. I view it as our peace sanctuary. So I prefer that we are as…" she struggles to find the right word, her lips pursed.

"…organic as possible."

"Were you going to say normal?" I inquired.

She smirked knowingly, shaking her head affirmatively.

"I like to think that we are normal. At least in the way we interact as a family. At the end of the day, my husband and I are parents to three amazing children, whom we love dearly. The rest obviously makes us different from most American families, but honestly, I think most people look at us; know we value family, our children and the principles that make this country great, and see us as normal.

The artful way she dodges the question is emblematic of the woman herself. Honest, engaging, yes. Never aware of the political booby traps, absolutely not.

Olive Pope-Grant's story is a familiar one. The only child of late statesman, and our nation's first black Secretary of Defense, she had been in the public eye since her parents' divorce in her teenage years. We have watched her grow up, get married and make history of her own.

"Is your emphasis on giving your children, an organic experience based on your own unstable childhood?"

Her face is unreadable when I ask the question. One could not call it a poker face, because it would not do the expression justice. It is more like a Queenly Mask, a perfected exercise of a wide smile, one that lights up her face. However, the air in the room changes. It is as if you can feel the physical manifestation of her guard going up. Her soulful eyes, warm and full of life before become colder.

To most who observe, the sore spots of the Grants, specifically the First Lady, are obvious. Negative commentary about their interracial marriage, the rumored acrimonious relationship between her and her father-in-law and of course, her parents' failed marriage.

The divorce, while shocking, considering most had envisioned the Popes to become the first black First Family are a formative piece in Pope-Grant's life. A divorce had put the nail in that idea. The narrative fed to the public for years was Mr. Pope's ambition for the White House was what broke them apart. A family friend infamously relayed to this very publication years ago in _The Real Cosbys: Not So Perfect After All __1_, that Maya Lewis was heard saying to her husband in a fight "You can choose! Your career or your family!"

However, more nefarious accusations of infidelity on Maya Lewis's (former Pope) part with her now partner Dominique Meraux, a famous French-American journalist for_ La Croix_ , who used to report for the _D.C Times, _still linger_._ Maya and Dominique live in Paris full time now. Though they do occasional visit the First Family. They spent this past Christmas together in the White House.

"Obviously no marriage is perfect, and my parents' marriage was far from repairable, but I think they shared a love and understanding that went beyond their problems. They were on good terms prior to my father's death. That's what matters. My kids, have different from my husband and my upbringing. Stability, two parents who get along, you know? Not attending boarding school? We have a bond there that I don't think I had growing up. It's neither good nor bad on my end. It was just different from what I went through."

"Many have praised you and the President for your child rearing, your kids seems well adjusted and happy, but is it really that different from your own childhood? You both are children of privilege who grew up in the spotlight? No different from your own children? "

"For starters, Fitz and I are incredibly hands on. Despite the demands of the Presidency, are kids come above all. They get to be normal. We make sure to know they are lucky and have things and access to opportunities that most don't. We don't want them spoiled or sheltered, but at the same time, we try to protect them. You know, I think of myself as 'Mom-In-Chief'. I love my parents but they were a bit aloof. Fitz could speak to this as well, considering his childhood. I don't think our parents had mastered the balance of having a private and public life and the parenting both spheres demand."

"Do you and the President have think you have?"

Her brow furrows as she weighs the question. Before she could answer it, an alarm goes off on the baby monitor that was beside her plate. It is time for Junior, as she calls him, to wake up from his nap. If he sleeps to long, he won't sleep tonight, she says.

She signals the kids movie time is over. They begin studying, Avery in his room (He has a Calculus exam), Blythe has a term paper due on _The Awakening _by Kate Chopin.

She periodically checks on the oldest, seeing if there is anything he does not get. However, he seems to have his bases covered. There is talk about needing new kneepads for lacrosse practice.

For an hour, mother and daughter have a conversation about Chopin's work. Mrs. Pope-Grant, patient and engaging reminds her daughter to take notes on passages of the book she can use for block quotes. She scolded her daughter when she notices her texting friends while they are speaking about schoolwork. "It is rude to not pay attention when someone is talking to you".

Junior is attached at the hip in the kitchen as Secret Service keeps her updated on an incident where air space was broached of the Estate, late last night.

She makes a few phone calls in the den and meets with her assistant Veronica, who accompanied the family on the trip and is staying in the guest house. The meeting pertains to business of the East Wing. Scheduling and Advance coordination about her visit to a school in inner city Los Angeles, has a conference call with Chief-of-Staff, Quinn Perkins about her week to come after vacation (Testifying before Congress on the Sexual Assault bill is top of the list, part of the LEAN FORWARD INITIATIVE). All the while her youngest is sitting in her lap, babbling in short sentences, in the way toddlers do.

Then finally, a private call, one with the President that I was asked to step out for by her aide. Though I did overhear a rather sweet exchange ending with "I love you baby. I can't wait to see you."

Mom, Wife, First Lady. It seems that the hats are always on. Never is there a time she is not all of those three.

**End of Excerpt.**

1


	12. A Weekend from the Past

**Author's Note.**

I would like to thank the lovely commentator who corrected my grammar. That is the danger one suffers when writing fanfics in NotePad on your phone. It is much appreciated.

I appreciate the kind words of the people who review. You make fan fiction worthwhile.

As far as "In the Bubble" is concerned...yeah.

The only characters who seem to have any sense or grasp reality are Abby, Quinn and Fitz. They live on a little place I like to call "Earth". They do their jobs, have some semblance of self-awareness and seem human.

Mellie's pain feels contrived and Cyrus is waaay out of character.

Rowan...well, Joe Morton, keep getting those checks and Emmys. I ain't mad.

Huck's man-pain is tired. I am not sure how the insurance/ benefit package is set up at OPA, but therapy should be apart of it. Full coverage. I am not sure how long his PTSD can be written as a character trait and not a problem in need of professional attention.

Jake. Just no. No further explanation needed. Just no.

Olivia? Well, she seems to lack common sense. I am not sure if the goal is to make her broken or cold? Her characterization still feels flat. I am hoping the Katherine storyline operates as a window into her past but knowing this bunch of writers...yeah.

I predict Olivia and Fitz in the final episode of the season end up in Vermont. It seems stupidly optimistic but in Scandalverse, season finales and premiere have symmetry.

Season 1 begins and ends with Olivia leaving the White House.

Season 2: Olivia is swarmed by press due to the Molotov Mistress case and ends with her being swarmed by the press for being the President's Mistress.

Season 3: Begins with Olivia rejecting her fathers offer to fly away on a plane. By the end, she flies off.

Season 4: Begins with Olivia and Jake on an island and maybe ends with Olivia and Fitz in scenic Vermont? The contrast between the artifice of her relationship with Jake on a tropical island vs. A cozy winter night in her rustic home with the man she loves?

The only reason why I think this is because I don't think the show ,this season , can end again with Olivia running away without some meta-commentary from the show. At that point, the show would from camp and ridiculous to down right formulaic.

But what do I know?

* * *

FLASHBACK  
May, 1995  
New York City. 

A gritty steel jungle of adventure.

The dawn of summer was just around the corner.

This was before Rudy Giuliani swept in on his broomstick and ushered in his Law & Order regime. The regime was there however changes were not tangible.

The city was the perfect paradox of grit and glitter.

The divides of the city were not as prominent...

Yet at night, a distinct group of monsters find their way into their natural habitat.  
_Tunnel_ may be the club to been seen, however _Exclipse_ the place to play.

It was the kind of place that an A-List actress with a pristine image married to a Ken Doll could do blow with no judgment.

The kind of place where a married blockbuster director could make out with a pop icon without the press breaking the story.

It was the den of hedonism and excess which made for the perfect breeding grounds for a group of spoiled brats.

The "Pol Pack" as they were know comprises a reckless and bawdy crew of daughters and sons of the nation's most prominent statesmen and diplomats. They were cool, hip and seen.

Fashion week, hot restaurants and clubs...

What made the group so fascinating was their exploits were closed to the mainstream press. It was like fog, tangible but you could not grasp with bare hands. For everyone knew that they were up to the wild and beautiful.

Though nary would you find a word that documented the worst of their behavior. You might see a Cindy Adams write up about them at a party. There could be a whisper in polite company over a trip on Daddy's tab to Ibiza or Cancun..

That's where it ended. Of course, when your mommy and daddy had a reputation to uphold, a stern call to a New York Post gossip column to wash away Friday night's orgy was inevitable.

The club that was the site of so many infamous hijinks was packed.

Sweat.  
E.  
Trance.  
Fun.

A Club Monster's basic necessities.

The ringleaders were holding court in the VIP section.  
Underage, loud and attention grabbing? Check.

On the dance floor, a young baby faced young man, dressed head to toe in black Versace was swaying to the hypnotic remix of Ru Paul's _Supermodel _ which was set to a house beat and was slowly morphing into Madonna's_ Vogue._

Out of his crew, he was the most coherent which was saying something. Four vodka shots had done its work. He was dancing with a cute bartender he had met at brunch with the girls.

James Novak was chaperoning once again. His dark eyes tried to keep track of the sultry green eyes his dance partner had, all the while making sure his friends were not abducted by any perverts.

In the leather booth, a lithe redhead with no indoor voice was whispering sweet, dirty promises to a B-List action movie star. It was hard to believe the wallflower orphan from Philly was now a flirtatious femme fatale, spitting game.

Her hands altered between running through her shiny locks and groping said actor as subtlety as someone on E could. Her veins were rushing as her thoughts slowed. She felt alive. Amorous. Never in her life had she felt this confident.  
The power of peer pressure had never tasted to good.

Though the source of everyone's attention were two girls dancing atop the glimmering bar.

One was tall, one was short. One was black, one was white. The petite black woman was a hypnotic dancer. Her hips hit the beats with a natural sensuality that would make the likes of Marilyn, Dorothy and Sophia envious. She wore a body hugging leather pants, a tight Lycra tank top with sliver hoop earrings. A lit blunt dangling from her pouty mouth as she provocatively intrigued the VIPs.

The most infamous of them all was the Grant girl; she was and blessed with Jessica Rabbit proportions that were hard to miss.

Big attitude and a spitfire, no one doubted Alicia Grant was Big Jerry's daughter for a second. The two had been attached at the hip since rooming together their Freshmen year.

Olivia Pope was trying to forget. She and Alicia were higher than the sky ,but she tried to forget.

The warm sensual hug of weed's embrace would provide the refuge Edison could not.  
A wild weekend in New York with her best friends club hopping would substitute the pain of arriving to that big empty house.

Eli was in Barcelona for a summit. Her mother, who the fuck knew. Her home for the next month would be the plush Park Ave digs, courtesy of Alicia Grant, her sister from another mother.

After all, it would not be the first time. As she moved to the beat, keeping step with a rather intoxicated Alicia, her thoughts wanted to hold on to this moment. The exquisite pleasure of escaping her "poor little rich girl" problems.

The derogatory taunts of Edison...

... a "Whitley Gilbert/Hillary Banks" complex.  
_Liv, there are people in the 'hood dying of starvation and you think that Mommy and Daddy having too much money is an issue? You are __such a brat. I swear._

_ Take out your nose ring. Straighten your hair. Come to Howard's Homecoming, don't hangout with the homos and whores. It will look bad when I run for office someday..._

* * *

That magically glittery, twisted weekend was the reason Olivia Pope was lying in the master bedroom as First Lady in Camp David.

Irony made life a funny motherfucker.

Her good friend Alicia Grant's curly haired brother had stopped by to visit. She instantly fell in love. Now, in bed, with next to her slumbering husband, his handsome face peaceful, her heart did back flips.

She was often in awe how far she had come.  
That weekend...All these years later.

For the first time, a guy, a man saw her. How they stayed up late, talking and laughing, regaling her with his life as a Naval Officer. They shared hopes and dreams.

As she lay, she remembered the beautiful chaos of feeling enraptured in a man. Not a boy. It was amazing how much of his military stoicism melted away behind the scenes.

It was funny very few people knew the _real_ story.

See, the real story as messy as it was was beautiful and meaningful. They never lied, per se, but they had always kept the story vague. The only people who knew the truth of that weekend were slumbering in adjoining cabins on Camp David's expansive grounds.

He woke up, smiling at his wife who had been staring at him, stroking his hair.

"Hi."  
"Hi"

"Interesting. You would think after last night, I would have worn you out." He flirted, embracing his wife in his muscular arms.  
Olivia melted in his arms smiling wide. The exposed flesh relishing feelings of the others body.

"I don't know why, but I suddenly became nostalgic."  
"Yeah?"  
"Yeah. I was thinking about our first time."  
"You mean-"  
"Yeah. Our real first time sleeping in the same bed."

The First Couple enjoyed the sun coming up as they recounted to one another between kisses and smiles a lost magical weekend in Grant Penthouse in New York.


	13. A Weekend from the Past II

FLASHBACK  
May1995  
New York City. 

_Sweat._  
_E._  
_Trance._  
_Fun._

_A Club Monster's basic necessities_.

The Grant Penthouse was a beautifully decorated piece of art. It was situated in one of Manhattan's exclusive white-glove buildings. The art deco was very lush, almost triggering imagery normally reserved for Edith Wharton's bygone New York. The apartment had been seldom used since Fitzgerald "Big Jerry" Grant II's hedge fund days.

After all, the family had moved out to California due to Big Jerry's political career. (Being the opportunist he was, and seeing there was no room for a seat of power, he carpetbagged his way to being Governor of California).

The apartment now acted as a stop over for the family. Whenever a Grant was in New York on business, for leisure (or in Big Jerry's case, a rendezvous he wanted to keep out the press), 1 Park Ave it was.

Fortunately for Alicia Grant, she had the keys to the place. Her best friends and her would be crashing here for at least a month until they backtrack through Europe. Summer vacation was not an option with their own families.

At least not in the conventional sense. James was the child of wealthy Argentinean Jews who did not know what to make of his sexuality. He tried his best to avoid them as much as possible. Abby, the daughter of two deceased teachers had no where to go, Alicia's parents well, the Grants made the Kennedys seem like the Cleavers.

And finally Olivia, with her overbearing father and absentee mother had abandoned her, not attending her graduation, or even bothered to care. Her father had given her a hefty check and left a note with the house keeper letting her know he was in Spain for a conference.

Every summer, the friends, bonded in mutual family dysfunction made life an adventure. Now, Europe would be their next stop after New York.

At least Abby and James would. Olivia, the question mark arose.

Her stick-up-the-ass boyfriend may get in the way of that. However, Olivia and Edison had fought nonstop. That was half the reason her good friend was staying in New York now that the semester ended. Not to mention, Olivia just a few short weeks ago had graduated early. _Phi Beta Kappa._

Olivia's friends were so proud of their mini-Einstein. They just wished she could be happier about her accomplishments. They really wanted her to celebrate with her, but she was down. All they could do was be there and help her take her mind of things.

For the past week, she had either been glued to a phone, arguing with Edison and sulking when they went out on the town. Fortunately, she had found her groove last night (well into the morning), the Old Olivia emerged. She danced, she smoked, she drank and danced until she could do it no more. The party finally ended for the foursome of friends right before the sun splashed on the magical city.

As young as they were, bouncing back from a night of clubbing was easy. Alicia, Abby and James, still clad in club attire, were at the breakfast nook in the bright kitchen tucking in bagels, eggs and Blood Mary's. Liv, on the other hand was still recovering from her hangover.

"Guys, I'm worried." James Novak said, his voice, normally a high pitched whine was deeper and hoarse due to their night at _Exclipse_.

Abby Whelan nodded as she took a sip of coffee. The room was silent. Alicia rolled her eyes not understanding what the fuss was about.

"Look, I 'm worried about Liv as much as the next person Jamesy, but there is nothing we can do. She doesn't want to break up with him. Her dad likes him, he's-"

"..a narcissist, a homophobe who hates us." Abby intoned between bites

Alicia's cerulean colored eyes were glazed over with sleep. She was tired of having this conversation. The Olivia-Edison soap opera was not ending anytime soon. They had plenty of meaningful talks that led down a rabbit hole.

She ran a hand through here thick locks. "Liv has been there for us, when we were all in shitty times. She didn't judge, she just listened. So that's what we are going to do. What kind of friends are we pressure her to breakup with Edison? I get it. We would be just like him, always forcing her to choose." From Alicia's tone, the other two got the hint to drop it. The trio continued to eat breakfast in a comfortable silence before it was broken by the phone ringing.

"I got it." Alicia said as she hopped up and shuffled in a lethargic manner to a nearby hallway phone. Who could be calling here? Hopefully none of Daddy's whores who thought the place belonged to them?

"Hello?"

"Hey lil' sis."

"Hey. You sound in good spirits"

"And you sound like shit."

"Gee, thanks. Did Mommy tell you I was here?"

"Yes, in fact. I am arriving in New York soon. I am attending a charity event so I'll be staying at the apartment."

"Oh? When where you planning on telling me this?"

"It came up rather fast, not to mention I like surprising you and I am trying to avoid Mellie. She has been up my ass ever since I started working at ONI."

"Why don't you grow a pair and break up with the bitch?"

"Because she gives a decent blowjob and I am too busy to date."

"What the fuck! Fitz! Gross, I didn't need to know."

"Whatever, sis. Just make sure you wrap up your crazy orgies and hide the coke when I get there. The whole Studio 54 thing you've done, not my style."

"Oh blow me._ Top Gun_. I remember what you were like before you enlisted...

* * *

Oliva was sure she was dead. That's it. Here lies Liv Pope, daughter, friend, dead at before her 21st birthday because she partied too hard. That explained the heat and steam she could sense emerging from the adjacent bathroom.

The gods had come for her. That was it. To save her from the pounding headache, the cotton mouth from too much weed and drinking and her aching arches. Fuck her favorite strappy Versace heels.

She stirred gingerly, trying not to heave all over the blue flannel sheets. However, her stomach betrayed her. She hopped out of bed as fast as her worn body would take her, not taking in the foreign L.L Bean overnight bag perched on the leather ottoman.

She burst into the steamy bathroom, which was hot and suffocating, doing little to improve her condition and threw up violently in the toilet. She felt five pounds lighter and loads better as she continued to puke. Whoever was taking a shower was going to get their head chopped off.

Before she could muster the very little energy she had to yell at whichever one of her friends forgot she was recovering from a vicious hangover, a large hand reached out from the thick shower curtains for a fluffy towel on a nearby granite table.

What the fuck?

The culprit of her discomfort revealed himself in a misty haze. Tall, with a deep tan and incredibly muscular, Michelangelo's David should take notes. Built, broad shoulders, a sculpted 6-pack and bulging biceps. He had a face carved into a square jaw, thin, yet defined lips and an aquiline nose.

His hair, a mess of wet blondish-chestnut curls fell into his smoldering slate colored eyes.

Olivia knew those eyes. Those familiar Grant eyes...

As Olivia sat on her knees, facing the toilet, wearing nothing but a Perry Ellis black tank from her night out and lacy French boyshorts, she had never felt more embarrassed.

Her ebony coils were messy, she smelled of potent pot, sweat and the last remnants of Chanel #5. What a way to meet your best friends hot older brother...

"Hi" He said bemused, his handsome face breaking into a lopsided grin. A grin Olivia had seen plastered on newspapers after he had come home from the Gulf.

She was having a hard time grasping with what was happening. Her eyes traveled to a rather large scar that cut across his delicious chest. She was raised with manners and it was in bad taste to just keep staring at his perfect, sexy-

"Hi." She croaked. Pulling her shoulders back and flushing the toilet.

"You must be the infamous Olivia Pope." He intoned. He had the deepest voice. She looked up at him, seeing his eyes traverse her petite body. The strangest thought crossed her mind.

**Is he checking me out? God, I hope so**...


	14. Proximity to Power Deludes the Powerless

**PRESENT DAY...**

**COUNTRY: QURAC**

**Located**:_ Persian Gulf. Borders Iraq, Saudi Arabia and Oman. _

**Continent: **Asia

**Currency: **Maal** (مال)**

**Population: **5.5 million

**GDP: 93,352.02 USD**

_Qurac is an absolute monarchy, ruled by a dictatorial sultan and his family. The country is a former British protectorate. The nation is close ally of the United States. Also mentioned was the fact that America leases Kemal Air Base in that nation, specifically in the Tiaret region, which has been there for some time. The lease renewed in late 2005 and concludes in late 2014._

In one of the many spacious conference rooms in the Laurel Lounge in Camp David sat three men. The table, and the room for that matter was largely vacant. After all, it was early in the morning and the persons demanded at this morning conference were few and far in between. The President of the United States, well-rested and casual was sitting at the head of the shiny maple table. His normally gelled hair, lacked any hair product at the moment and was rather wavy from his morning shower. His handsome face, once covered in sexual bliss a mere hour ago, was now stern and focused.

To his right, his trusted Chief of Staff, Cyrus Beene dour and balding was combing through freshly faxed briefing material. To his left sat Jared Marshall, the Grant Administration's National Security Advisor.

ADM Jared Marshall was an old Navy friend of the President. Tall, burly with a medium brown complexion, taupe colored eyes and a friendly voice, he had held up in the looks department, much like his good friend despite his 53 years. The friendship was almost familial. They often joked that they were brothers from another mother despite Grant's wealthy politically connected background and Marshall's humble roots as a Black man from the Deep South. So when the time came to fill his cabinet, the President looked no further than one of his best friends.

Fitzgerald was godfather to Jared's boys Michael and James. Jared's wife Shanae was a good friend of Olivia's and the two had bonded over being mothers, married to powerful men and chief of all, being career-minded Black women who were often walking the halls of power alone.

Hence the Marshalls introduction into the President and First Lady's inner circle over the past 10 years. (In addition to also being among the first Democrats to jump ship during the election and endorse Fitzgerald).

The weekend at Camp David was supposed to be a gathering of good friends, drink and fun. Skeet shooting, hiking and golf for the men. Tennis, gossip and good wine for the women. However the nature of the Presidency always demanded one be on the job.

"I have to admit, I am not crazy about Shareef's statement, but we need that air base." Fitz commented on a proposal made by his venerable Secretary of State, Verna Thornton.

The husky voice diplomat had pushed for the United States to return two Guantanamo Bay prisoners in exchange for negotiating the terms of the air base. This had been her pet project and she was not fond of the President stepping on her toes.

"With all due respect, Mr. President, we are wasting time! We need-"

"Shareef's statement was one of bluster. The Quraqi forces need our air support if they are going to fight of Isis." Intoned Jeff Morton, the southern syrupy Secretary of Defense.

"With all due respect, there is hardly any intelligence that supports..." interrupted Director of the CIA, Adna Salif, the slinky former operative who had worked her way up the ranks. She was hardly a wallflower, despite her exotic looks and sultry disposition.

The three of them bickered, their disembodied voices piling on top of each other. Fitz, Jared and Cyrus rolled their eyes and exchanged meaningful looks. Typical of the National Security Council. Whether they were in person or over the phone, the defending of the turf always happened.

The many dangers of having a President with an extensive foreign policy background for most in the Foreign Policy apparatus was the inability to break through to the President. For one thing, he kept a small, elite circle of friends and advisors, keeping most at a very polite distance. Golf, state dinner, maybe even an invite for wine in the Residence, sure. But Camp David, the Vermont Ranch, no. He knew the game. The overeager Generals from his time as a Secretary of the Navy. The sketchy intel from his days as Deputy Director of Naval Intelligence. Most importantly, he was too savvy to see through the self-interest and gamesmanship of D.C.

You cannot bullshit a bullshiter.

If most were being honest, they were burning with envy that Marshall and Beene were sitting side by side with the President while they were on the phone, fighting for his attention.

Truth be told, if the President had it his way, he would be under the sheets with his wife, his face buried between her legs and exploring what he considered the "eighth world wonder."

Secret Service practically had to drag him out of bed this morning for this conference call.

So if that was the case, the question had to be asked: In a lovely weekend to Camp David with his family and friends, why had the political opportunist Jake Ballard been invited to this trip, while they were vying for his attention over the phone?

* * *

"I don't like him." Alicia Grant gripped as she poured a shot of cognac into her Earl Grey.

Olivia giggled as she observed her disgruntled sister-in-law across the breakfast table. James, Abby, Olivia and Alicia. The old gang, plus a new member Shanae Marshall were gossiping and giggling over a delicious spread of devil eggs, fried oysters and pumpernickel toast.

The group had been having a good time dishing it out ( A Senator was screwing his intern, Abby was dating a new guy and James was entertaining a pundit gig on BNC). However the topic of conversation had turned to the odd man out, Jake.

It was day two at Camp David and so far everyone was having a blast. The kids were getting along splendidly, bringing back memories for the old gang about their youthful exploits. Shanae lived for hearing about how crazy everyone had been before she had befriended them. Their husbands were finally unwinding from their stressful jobs, despite being locked away in the conference room for prolonged periods of time.

However the one point of contentious was Jake. Despite his shiny veneer of political prowess in front of cameras, socially the guy was a joke. Secretly Olivia had enjoyed every minute of the poor bastards humiliation. He was so out of his depth being around so many accomplished (specifically women) people who were not impressed by him. The Marshalls sneered, The Beene-Novaks rolled their eyes at his frat-boy attempts at humor at the dinning table and the kids ignored him.

"Honey, you are preaching to the choir." Shanae said, flipping her dreadlocks over her shoulder as she reached for the oysters.

"Mm. Seriously Liv, the guy is a douche."

"With a capital D."

"Double D's with those tits he calls a chest. Word to the wise, never go running with him EVER, gross." James snarked. The table was raptured with laughter. Olivia laughed the hardest.

In war, first, you must isolate, then you ambush. Her and Fitz's friends were the cream of the crop. The folks who made Washington D.C go around. For a guy like Jake who's whole identity was wrapped in the artificial and his proximity to power, there would be nothing more demoralizing than this weekend.

Sure, it was high school and juvenile on Olivia's part, but he needed to learn his place. He needed to know that the glittery world of power existed and that after this weekend, he would never savor the sweet taste of being a part of it.

Inmates on death row were given their last supper. Why not torture the bastard one last time before they fired him.

* * *

**Last Night...in Washington D.C**

Quinn Perkins was at _Founders, _a popular watering hole for D.C movers and shakers on Connecticut Ave. It had all the cliché elements of a D.C hotspot. White table clothes, overpriced menu items and the smell of overcooked meat.

The grey-haired Senators, journalists and strategist were making deals and sharing war stories.

But the young brunette had little to no patience to ass-kick. Going home to her lonely apartment after a week of 18 hour days was not appealing. She would love to get laid, but the talent in _Founders _was non-existent. Married men were so Stanford and her vibrator needed a new set of batteries.

Bourbon it was. She was only on her second glass when she had noticed a familiar bad dye job out of the corner of eye.

Chandler...

However, it was not just Chandler. It was Chandler at a table looking close, hell more than close with none other than Congressmen Shaw, the fresh-faced Democratic back-bencher. The guy had screwed more women in his short time in this town than he had passed legislation.

Though that would not stop Chandler from hitting on him. Quinn wondered how Jake would feel...

She slid off her bar stool, smoothing out her navy Bill Blass skirt suit and made her way over to the adjacent table. Why not fuck with her food before eating it?

"Hi!" Quinn said, her face breaking into a forced smile. The occupants reaction to her presence could not be more diametrically opposed. Congressman Shaw's handsome face was beaming. His dark eyes taking in Quinn's wavy hair, curvaceous form and inviting dimples while Vanessa Chandler steamed with anger. Her brown eyes were simmering with jealously. Leave it to Perkins to steal the show.

"Quinn, fancy meeting you here!" Shaw responded, getting up to plant a friendly kiss on her cheek. His hand brushed a little too low on her back when he greeted her.

Quinn smiled so wide, she looked demented.

"Yeah, well, you know me, a good pour and I am here. How is it going? With the-"

"The Congressman was just leaving." Vanessa cut in, trying to end the exchange.

Quinn looked down at Vanessa, subtly raising her left eyebrow. How insecure was this chick?

There was an uncomfortable silence that had befallen the threesome. Awkward.

Like the consummate politician he was, Shaw buttoned his blazer, cleared his throat and nodded.

"Ladies, have a lovely night. Vanessa, I will see you next week." Vanessa and Shaw exchanged a meaningful look, leaving the two young women in a daze of his delicious cologne.

Quinn plopped down across from Vanessa and took a long gulp of her drink.

"So...you two look cozy." Quinn sneered as Vanessa readjusted herself in the seat.

"Save it, Perkins. I know what you are thinking." She snapped back, folding her arms over her busty chest.

"What? I have not said anything. Though I do wonder how-"

"We are not exclusive."

"But he gives you exclusives, right? Or is that just work? That's how it works with all of them. Jake, Shaw, the guy at the State Department." Quinn giggled cockily, taking another sip. Fuck, this bourbon was good.

Vanessa's eyes narrowed to slits as she leaned in, giving Quinn a better idea of how inappropriate the little black dress Vanessa was wearing was for a place like this.

"You know you act like you are sooooo innocent. Like you haven't fucked powerful guys to get ahead."

Quinn giggled a little too loudly, drawing attention to their table.

"I fucked powerful guys because they were there. I am a busy girl with no time for relationships. I have been since I landed a White House internship sophomore year. You really think I have the time to sift through the dating pool of men our age? I want to be Chief of Staff of the United States by the time I am 40. Pretty darn realistic seeing that I am the First Lady's Chief of Staff and I am only 28. So no, I don't fuck men for power. I fuck them for amusement, unlike you who makes Rush Limbaugh look like a fucking Peabody award-winning journalist. I have my clout in this town because of hard work and ambition, but who am I to slut shame."

Vanessa rolled her eyes, feigning boredom.

"That's the problem with all you Grant sycophants. Too busy drinking your own Kool-Aid."

"That still does not explain why you are busy making googly eyes at Shaw. Nice of you to fuck my sloppy seconds."

"For your information, I am not fucking him. I am interviewing him for the Sunday edition." Chandler was so full of herself that Quinn would enjoy knocking her down a peg before finishing her glass and getting the fuck out of this cesspool.

"Look Perkins, I don't know what your beef with me is, or your boss's for that matter-"

That. There. The delusions of women and men like Jake and Vanessa. Always fighting to get inside the bubble, yet battling against those who hold the keys.

So Quinn laughed. She laughed because she was tired. She laughed because she could not wait until the article that was to be published in New York Magazine profiling Chandler's trashy unethical ways.

"Look, you are collateral damage. If the Big Boss wanted to come for you, she would have destroyed you and that tacky T.J Maxx clerance rack dress you are wearing. If I were you, I would be very careful."

Quinn downed her drink and went for the kill.

"You should know, the Grants, they are on to you. I am not a pawn or a delivery girl. Just a messenger. If I were you, I would pack my ball up and go home. You are done in this town."

Vanessa's pretty face was clouded with confusion. She really had no idea.

"You see, the Grants are pretty smart. I've been a part of their circle from the beginning so I know how this works. They keep a three-tier social order. Almost like colleges. Tier three, the donor class. Movie stars, Hollis Doyle, Wall Street barons and the like. They keep the coffers full, grease this machine. They get invited to state dinners, the residence and big events like Fitz IV's christening. They are made to feel important, even though they are merely necessary evils. Tier two, the D.C set. Politicians, lobbyists, and journalists. They get invited to the Cali home, play golf with the President when he wants an extra provision in the budget of if the First Lady wants to assuage the crazies in the party. Then there is Tier one. The platinum circle. The folks in Camp David now. We all know your little boy toy Jake is not worthy of such company. So if I were a betting woman, I'd say, they were buttering him up until they give him the walking papers."

Quinn said all of this with the kind of enthusiasm reserved for children on Christmas Day when opening presents. Chandler's bewildered expression was the icing on the cake.

"Look you are drunk, so I am going to ignore the crazy you just spewed. I know for a fact the President adores him."

"Do you, or is that what he tells you when he's hittin' it? Look, I am just telling you because I have some semblance of sympathy. Jeanne has already cut you access in the Briefing Room. Cut your loses and dump the loser. He's not that good in bed from what I have heard."

With a mocking smirk, Quinn downed her drink and left a confused Chandler with the tab and a lot to think over...


	15. A Weekend from the Past III

**Author's Note.**

Thanks for all the support. Please continue to review and read!

As for the show...

Yeah. There needs to obviously be a shake up. The structural problems of the show are beginning to show. Clearly the writers are the type to know how to pack for a trip and arrive to the destination. However the journey leaves much to be desired. The best thing they could do post-winter break is kill a few characters. The cast is too big and bloated. There are characters that have expired in use and need to be killed or downgraded. There are characters that no longer have relevance and have been pushed to the side in favor of newer characters (see Cyrus and Rowan).

The cases of OPA need to graduate to deeper, character driven arcs that last a whole season, à la The Good Wife. The Catherine arc is a step in the right direction, but it is not compelling. There needs to be more focus on Olivia trying to restructure her business now that Abby and Harrison are no longer employees and less focus on B6-13. I am still not seeing enough evidence that the writers have a plan other than to rehash old Grey's Anatomy plot points (4th season love triangles, weird sex dreams, daddy issues.)

It's tired.

* * *

The Grant Penthouse.

FLASHBACK  
May, 1995  
New York City.

"_He is..."_

_"...sex on legs..."_

_" I would break him off so good..."_

Olivia was having a hard time standing. It was bad enough that she had just heaved out her entire stomach and lining along with it. Now, half-naked in the bathroom, she faced an enigma, a ghost.

A myth.

To her, and through the course of most of her friendship with Alicia, Fitzgerald Thomas Grant III was a figment of imagination. An anecdote sprinkled in conversation when the topics of the day particularly Desert Storm were discussed, or when her best friend bitched about her family. People whispered about him with awe. Reporters interviewed him on Sunday morning shows...

Purple Hearts, Naval Excellence. An aviator who had rained fire and brimstone down on Saddam's forces. She had heard the stories and rumors. Even her own father an Army man who had served in Vietnam (and had little patience for the "rich white boy brigade" that populated the Air Force and Navy) was in awe of the man's service to his country...

"Sorry Miss Pope, I did not mean to startle you." He intoned, his eyes radiating with sincerity. There was a growing blush in his smooth cheeks.

Olivia nodded, trying to appear as graceful as she could. "Not a problem."

They stared at each other. The steam of Fitzgerald's shower was not the only thing swirling in the room. The tension, thick and tasty could be cut with a knife. Olivia could not remember the last time she truly had been this affected by a man before. She was struggling to think straight, trying to ignore the humming of lust that permeated of her clammy skin and the tingle of want percolating between her thighs. She fought to stare at his nose. It was a Catch-22. If she stared at his rippling muscles, she would lose her mind. If she stared into the greyish-blue jewels that were his eyes, she would lose her mind.

The best thing she could do was keep reminding herself that she had a boyfriend.

Right, Edison. Him. Sure.

"Well, you probably need the bathroom more than I do, so I'll give you your privacy." He intoned politely. He grabbed another towel, wrapped it around his shoulders and stalked passed her, closing the bathroom door behind him.

All Olivia could do was plop on the floor after he walked out. The delicious smell of his bath gel was hypnotic and a soothing remedy for her hangover. However, the source of her sudden calm had not been careful. When Fitzgerald had closed the door, he had not shut the door, leaving a small crack and giving Olivia a show she never knew she needed.

She sat on the floor, her already dried mouth parched, forcing her to lick her lips. The fluffy white towel had dropped from his waist on the plush pearl colored carpet.

Hot damn.

Why was this happening? Why was she, Liv Pope, sitting on the floor of the bathroom watching...

Her best friend's brother naked. Where a man's thighs supposed to be that tone? Where butts meant to be so muscled? Was she supposed to want to grab it?

Or had the lackluster physicality of her relationship finally caught up with her? How far had she fallen?

She used to be the girl guys chased. Since she was 16, she had wielded her sexual prowess for the good of her own satisfaction. Fuck buddies, boyfriends or even one-night stands knew that she was the best they ever had. She lured them. They were normally the one's left panting. Yet this guy...

Sexual desire had always been spurned, but not like this. Was she so desperate to scratch the itch her boyfriend failed to scratch that Fitzgerald Thomas Grant III seemed so damn sexy and handsome? What about his presence had turned her into a drooling, thirsty fool?

If the eight inch weapon hanging between his legs was any indication, Olivia was in trouble.

She had a boyfriend.

Edison, right.

She was no longer that girl. She would be good. She would remove temptation from her.

* * *

"Is there no way he can sleep in a hotel? Or something? I don't want Edison to feel uncomfortable with all this. I mean, he's going to want to know what happen this weekend?" Olivia whined to Alicia. They were in Alicia's bedroom watching _A Few Good Men_ on tape.

Alicia rolled her eyes as she tossed her dark locks over her shoulder. Olivia knew she was being annoying. After all, James had not seen this movie and loved Tom Cruise, especially when he was in uniform. Abby was too busy chomping on popcorn to even seem to notice. Olivia and Alicia were spread out on the canopy bed while James and Abby had occupied the floor with popcorn and a vintage bottle of Pinot. Finally everyone had gotten around to showering and were dressed in sweats, enjoying the day before another night on the town.

Tonight it would be a strip club, then Limelight.

For most of the afternoon, Olivia had done her best to avoid Fitzgerald. Which was difficult. Thought he was an excellent housemate. He was reserved, quiet and either had his head buried in official looking documents or was on the phone, making what sounded like work calls. He was working for Naval Intelligence now that he was back from being overseas. Olivia had grown up with a man who worked in the Intel business and knew what that entailed.

Yet it was difficult to ignore him. Seeing that James, Alicia and Abby had a very good chance of getting laid this weekend, Fitzgerald and Olivia were forced to share what apparently was Fitz's old bedroom when the Grant Family lived in New York City, with him sleeping in the pull out couch, and her taking the bed. They were both in a relationship and as per the agreed upon house rules, the singles got the beds and the pairs shared. This way, no one walked in on anyone fucking. He was with some prep school Pollyanna named Mellie and she with Edison. She missed being the single one (in more ways than one).

Whenever he smiled, her stomach did back flips. When he had brushed past her in the hallway, her whole body flushed with adrenaline. When he had argued on the phone with his "girlfriend" , her stomach twisted in knots. She wasn't jealous. How could she be?

There had been a stilted bout of small talk when he was making himself a sandwich in the kitchen.

_"So Alicia tells me you just graduated. Congratulations." He nodded politely. Once again, Olivia choked like an idiot, nodding awkwardly as she eyed his veiny forearms. Never had spreading mayonnaise on rye read looked so fucking sexy. _

_"Umm...thanks." _

_"Yeah, that's amazing. Graduating early. So, what are your plans after school?"_

_"Well, I just applied for a staffing job in the White House. I am thinking about maybe that. Or grad school. I've always wanted to go to Harvard Law..."_

_"Right, right. Your father is a Harvard man, Secretary Pope?"  
_

_"Uh-huh."_

_"Impressive man. Incredibly accomplished, must be nice growing up with such a man as a father."_

_The air of polite casual had been replaced with a heavy silence at his comment. They shared a meaningful look. His eyes, piercing and intense most of the time had become softer. It was as though he had recognized something in her stiff body language at the mention of her father. This was too much. Who the fuck did he think he was? Any other guy, she would have told to fuck off and mind his own business. Yet, he...kept disarming her. Why? _

"Honestly Liv, how many times have we slept in the same room with guys? Seriously, Edison is-"

"This is not about Edison! This is about-"

"Your brother is sex on legs and our newly reborn Liv is afraid she is going to pounce on him." Abby said bluntly.

Alicia turned to look at Olivia, an incredulous expression dancing around her striking face. It was as if a lightbulb had gone off.

"Whaaa..." James said, whipping around so fast, his horn-shell glasses were askew.

"Abby!"

"What it's true. Come on, Liv! We all know how you were before Edison. Why not?"

"Yeah Liv, why not?"

"Umm...newsflash guys, as much as I love Liv and my brother, I would rather not like to think about the two of them doing the horizontal tango. Though now, that you mention it..."

"Seriously! I am not attracted to Alicia's brother!" Olivia said through gritted teeth, avoiding the bemused expressions of all in the room."

It could not be that obvious. Could it?

"Oh, honey you keep telling yourself that. We _all_ are attracted to Alicia's brother." James said, cheeky.

"James, your just attracted to anything that has been in a uniform." Olivia shot back, gesturing to Tom Cruise in dress whites on-screen.

"Your goddamn right I am." He said giggling.

* * *

T_he descent into hell is always pleasurable. You dread it at first, scared wondering why you are not sitting on the right hand of the father. Then it spirals. It spirals. Where you forget a year of promises and pleas. You forget that you are not the boarding school brat who gives European princes blow jobs. That you, yes party with your friends, but no longer are the crazed party girl. You are a girl who happens to party sometimes._

_That you promised your Dad you would behave. Not embarrass him. Stay away from rich white boys and settle down._

_That was before you fought with Edison over the phone yet again. Before you skipped out on a night on the town and decided to stay in with your temptation. Before you shared cigarettes and wine with the target of your desires._

_That for hours, the two of you bonded over emotionally abuse fathers, failed relationships._

_The first layer of Dante's inferno was the Al Green record..._

"What do you know about soul?" Olivia teased running a hand through her wild curls. She was flirting hard. She was baiting him. She could see the dilemma playing across his face. He had a girlfriend, he had a good 12 years on her. Yet his attraction to her was more and more obvious as the night, and the wine went.

He licked his lips, looked for an excuse to touch her. What Olivia would not give to have his large hands dance across her legs. She knew what she was doing when she wore her Calvin Klein cut offs and a_ J'adore Dior_ off the shoulder t-shirt.

"Kid, I have been jamming to soul before you were a fetus, okay?" He joked, taking a pull of a cigarette.

They were laying on the floor of his bedroom, discussing music taste. Giggling. The sweat summer air flowing in from the open French windows.

The second layer of Dante's Hell had been them discussing Mellie...

"...I mean, she's a bit uptight."

"Uptight? That's a wonderful way of saying she's horrible in bed." Olivia said in a saucy voice, lighting her third cigarette. Fitzgerald's mouth fell open in surprise.

"I swear, I have flown missions with guys who have seen combat who don't have the balls you do. How old are you again?" He laughed, shaking his head.

_The fight, the duality of the two Olivias. Pre-Edison, the sexually vivacious girl who grew up too fast and post-Edison, the monogamous trophy fighting her inhibitions was at war. However by the time she had finished her fourth cigarette, a new Olivia was born._

The real Olivia, smart, sure and vulnerable. She loved good music, better wine. She loved poetry, Toni Morrison and summers in the Vineyard. She was lonely, trapped in a loveless relationship, fighting to prove she was not her mother. She did not want to break her father's heart by being her mother. She wanted to be good, chaste and pure. She wanted to not be a Jezebel, a hussy and all the nasty things her mothers "friends" had said when she ran off with Dominique.

For hours, Fitz listened. He shared. He saw her. The unraveling of a puzzle of concepts and a young woman who was fighting to find herself. He was entranced by her maturity, her beauty.

_Somewhere between the third and fourth layer of hell, in a slightly tipsy rant that your boyfriend did not know how to please you. That he was sexually selfish, did not believe performing oral sex and hated when you were on top._

"Wait, what? What does that even mean?"

"What does what mean? He doesn't believe in eating a girl out."

He laughed. Was he mocking her?

"What the hell? I am telling you shit and-"

"I am a Catholic and believe in Jesus Christ. I believe Stevie Wonder's _Songs in a Key of Life_ is the best album of all time. I believe the Grumman F-14 Tomcat is the best invention since sliced bread. But sex, oral sex, or better yet pleasing a woman is a fact of life. Its not some myth. If you are giving and not receiving in sex, what's the point? Why do it, if not to gain pleasure from your partner's pleasure?"

Olivia stared at him, dressed in his dark wash jeans and his Navy shirt. His eyes were burning with desire and passion in the glow of the moonlight and an antique dim lamp.

_Somewhere, this was the moment. The moment when Olivia descended into temptations final layer. _

"You are a work of art. A beautiful, pristine work of art. However you are a person. With needs and desires and more life experience than most people my age. You need to be loved, Livvie. You need love. Everyone needs it. You have to stop giving it, you need to receive, and stop giving to everyone and start living for you."

"He loves me. Fitzgerald."

"Does he, or does he love what he thinks you will be. I am not going to sit here and lie. I have never felt more connected to a person in my life. This is scary and I know its wrong because you are Alicia's friend and we are both seeing other people but, I feel it. Maybe we are both lonely, maybe we are missing something. But just for tonight, let's just pretend. I'm not the Navy Aviator and Governor Grant's disappointing boy and you aren't Secretary Pope's Little Girl or Edison Davis's trophy girl. Let's be us."

It wasn't right. It was not logic. It was...not hell. It was life.

_Sex was not bad. Feelings of lust, connection, depth and the comfort of conversation were not evil. _

_I am not a bad person. I am me. I need to start being me._

* * *

They held each other that night. Her small, petite body curled in his muscular form. He stripped down to his boxer shorts and she in his cotton Navy T-Shirt. The shirt so big, it could have been a dress on her.

They stared into each other's eyes, smiled soft, secret smiles and ignored the phone calls, the outside world.

Though somewhere, with dawns caress approaching, the desire took over.

His long, nimble fingers found her taut warmth, strumming her pain and peaking her pleasure.

"Yes...Yess...Yesss..."

A kiss, deep with hot tongues and fierce lips locked them.

Before Olivia knew, his head was buried between her thighs and he showed her what it meant to be desired. His mouth learned her intimately suckling at her womanhood, triggering the most primal moans Olivia had ever produced.

"Fuuuuuck. I'm coming...I'm gonnna...YeeAAAeahhh..."

Olivia grabbed his silky tresses, her back locking in an arch. As she reached the white light of orgasmic bliss, she ascended.

That was as far as their consciousness would take them. Him showing her the pleasures her boyfriend would not. It could be debated, or argued but if they went too far, guilt would wrack her mind.

Little did Olivia know this would not be the last time Fitzgerald Grant III would drink from her well. Even though she swore it would be...

* * *

The next time, a very irate Edison who had planned on suprising her would walk into her apartment and see his worst nightmare.

He would walk in to see his girlfriend splayed on her back, face screwed up in pleasure as another man drove her to the depths of her passions. The haunting sounds of wet licking and sucking would drive him to fuck another girl. It finally gave Edison the permission to screw the light skin honey he had his eye on for a whole year. A girl who would know not to disrespect him. A girl who would not lay slick in sweat and lust as he observed a car crash through the crack of her bedroom door.

_Shhiiiitt...babe. Yesss...don't stoop. Don't stop. YeeeeAAAh, suck me, Daddy. Fuck, you eat me sooo...goood. YESS! I'm cooom...ahhh._

Olivia would never know that he would catch them months later in D.C. He held it close to the chest, Edison did.

However, the night in New York would become the first night of the rest of Fitz and Olivia's lives together.


End file.
